No Truth
by GarGoyl
Summary: There were no clean-cut truths in this and Alin knew that in the end – if he lived – he'd be left wondering which one of them was more fucked up in the head… Dark no-fluff BulRo fic with some AusHun – my friend Republic-of-Yolossia had it coming so blame him if you hate it, hah.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

A/N – Yeah, I know nobody fucking reads BulRo, (or Ro or Bul for that matter) and even less review, but I don't care. As the summary says, no syrupy romance will occur in this fic, although some 'action' might. If you don't like guns, don't read this. If you think all Romania can do is sparkle and all Bulgaria can do is eat yogurt all day, don't read this. I don't own Hetalia.

_Bulgaria – Tsvetan Borisov_

_Romania – Alin Vasile_

* * *

Dark green eyes fixed the bathroom mirror intently as the young man brought up a wet hand and wiped the blood smeared onto his cheek. It had already darkened and it formed a crust he had to scrub a bit harder to clean, but a satisfied smirk formed on his lips nevertheless. Ruffled black bangs fell on his pale forehead and he shook his head, tossing them away from his eyes, as he continued to look at his reflection for another moment.

"Tsve, we have to be going now," a thick voice growled from the other side of the door, accompanied by short, loud banging.

The green-eyed brunet wiped his cheek one last time before pulling his tight black undershirt over the gun stuffed into his belt. "Coming Vanko, hold your fucking pants," he replied calmly. He eventually walked out of the restrooms and threw an indifferent glance around the thrashed restaurant. Broken glass and wood splinters crunched beneath his sneakers as he sauntered slowly, making a point in admiring the disaster and especially the bullet holes in the fine wallpaper. He didn't look at the bodies though – he knew that Vanko must have already counted them, but he for one didn't bother to keep a record. For him it was all about getting the job done and getting paid for it. They weren't too many anyway - the few customers had scurried off instantly the moment his team had burst in, so they'd only had to take care of the old man and his 'security personnel'. Seriously, the Italians thought they could put up a fight, just by themselves, with the help of some amateurs? Georgiev had checked them before all of this had started and they weren't connected, otherwise all hell would have broken loose. Not that Tsvetan would have minded if they were to start a full-out war with the Mafia or anything.

Choked sobs caught his ear as he moved towards the exit and the Bulgarian stopped, turning slightly and glancing down at the little auburn-haired boy crouched on the floor, desperately squeezing the bloodied hand of someone fallen behind the bar. Someone dead. The boy fell quiet suddenly and looked up, eyes puffy and red from crying and his face wet with tears and blood, but he did not let go. He probably knew it was pointless – if they wanted to kill him, he couldn't escape, there was nowhere to run.

"When you're done pissing your pants, spread the word, yeah? Georgiev doesn't fuck around. Your Grandpa should have paid up instead of stirring shit he couldn't handle. Bringing in the armed men, that was a stupid idea. Really bad… who the fuck-"

"Tsve, come on! The boys are waiting in the car, it's been twenty minutes!" his companion interrupted, tugging on his arm impatiently. "I can hear fucking sirens already, the police will be here any minute now!"

Tsvetan tsked, scrunching his face into a disgusted scowl. Fucking Vanko! The man was twice his size, but he crapped out too easily! And yet he still had the nerve to act like he was in charge! He'd have to talk to the boss about that. If Georgiev wanted good results he'd have to give him a better team. He walked out nonchalantly, purposely refusing to hurry as he stepped over the elegant glass door - now broken and flattened to the ground - and headed towards the black SUV.

* * *

Her head was beginning to hurt and a wave of nausea threatened to rise up as she sat hunched over the desk, doing her best to ignore the hospital smell still stuck in her nostrils. Reaching for the steaming paper cup, Elizaveta decided she'd probably seen too much of hospitals lately - first with being shot, less than a month before and now with taking that boy's statement. She could have asked someone else to do it, but she'd wanted to see for herself. Well, wasn't that how she usually got into trouble? Always wanting to see for herself, always wanting to do things her way and - if possible - alone.

Sighing deeply, the brunette pushed away a portion of the pile of papers and photos lying on her desk in complete chaos and picked up the file she'd been carefully avoiding all day. Since Chief Inspector Adnan had warned her about it the moment she'd walked in – seriously, did the man sleep at his desk or something? – Elizaveta had taken its contents seriously, or at least she'd forced herself to. But upon rapidly scanning and leafing through it, she'd tossed the folder at the far end of the desk and had made a point not to touch it again until it was absolutely necessary. And it was necessary now.

Her arm protested at the stretching movement, her shoulder still feeling pretty much stiff, and that brought a scowl on her face ahead of time. Demonstratively, the detective opened the file at the front page and, with a groan, picked up the phone.

"Yeah, it's me. Please ask officer… Vasile to come to my office. Now."

"Sure, love. He just walked in, actually."

Taking a large gulp of hot coffee and expecting some miraculous effect from the dark, bitter liquid, Elizaveta tried to compose herself and assume a pleasant-… no, a less hostile countenance. What the hell was Adnan thinking? A soft knock on the door nearly made her jump off the chair – even though she'd expected it – and only then the Hungarian realized how stressed she must have been.

"Come in," the brunette uttered in a voice which sounded disturbingly like a suffocated croak (despite the rules, Sadiq smoked like a snake in his own office and every time he opened the door thick clouds wafted out of it, polluting the whole atmosphere) and she rapidly cleared her throat, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She'd had a rose-shaped hairclip in the morning as she'd left for work, but now it was gone.

Upon her invitation, the door opened and a young man walked in cautiously. "Hello, detective Héderváry," he said in a surprisingly pleasant voice.

She nodded, motioning to the chair in front of her desk. "Officer Vasile, please have a seat."

The small black-and-white picture in the file was somewhat misleading, Elizaveta realized. Alin Vasile looked awfully young for some reason and he looked rather fragile and lanky in the full black uniform slacks and short-sleeved shirt, and the bulletproof vest he wore on top of it didn't do anything to change that impression. His strawberry blonde hair, reaching to the base of his jaw, was tucked behind his ear on one side and loosely hanging in the other. The visible ear had two piercings – one tiny, round red gem and a silver lightning bolt. How unprofessional, the Hungarian thought, until she realized he was (discreetly) observing her office. The place was a dusty, cramped mess and she hadn't bothered to tidy it up in ages. The plant by the window had withered and the air was thick and stale because said window was stuck and, now that she sniffed more carefully, she could pick up a suspicious scent of mold. Hell, it must have looked like a witch's den. Fuck.

"Well," Elizaveta began, "I suppose Chief Inspector Adnan has informed you what this is about…"

"In a few words, yes," he nodded.

Alin's gaze seemed to trail towards her injured shoulder and the Hungarian stiffened. "Anyway, ultimately he's letting me decide if we're to work together on this case," she lied (Sadiq had already made the decision and despite her protests it was final). "So… I went through your file, but I was wondering if you could tell me a few things about you," she added as casually as she could muster. The detective genuinely wondered what else there was to know about him other than that he was a Romanian bastard and that he often hung out with Gilbert Beilschmidt, a notorious dickhead who did justice to the saying 'Hell is where the police is German'.

To her momentary satisfaction, he blinked, a bit confused.

"I'd say… I am quite intuitive and I work well under pressure. And I never back off from writing long reports," he said with a small smile. Right. Of course. "Um… could I open the window a bit? It seems I've brought in some of the smoke…"

"Oh, sure," Elizaveta replied innocently, closing the file and shifting her attention towards the pile of photos. If you can… Her eyebrows shot up curiously as the Romanian stood and tried to lift it, almost enjoying the puzzled look on his face when the damned thing refused to budge.

"Ce cacat de geam! _(A/N – 'What shit of a window' - Romanian)_" she heard him muttering and by the use of his native language instead of English she deduced that it must have been some hardcore profanity. But Alin did not give up and, after he'd paused to study the problem more carefully, managed to open the window and let fresh air pour inside the room.

"I'm sorry, was that a test?" he asked afterwards, before sitting back down in front of her. "Is there any other task I am to complete in order to prove my worth?"

Eyes glued on the papers, Elizaveta couldn't help a small smile in return. "No, but thank you. It had been stuck for a while." Well, now that we opened the window, you could throw Sadiq out too while you're at it, she thought. "Anyway, I think we should get to work."

The Hungarian looked around the desk and dug in the mixture of prints, handwritten notes and photos, wondering where to start. And where the hell was Feliciano Vargas' statement? Ugh… she could have used a secretary.

"Chief Inspector Adnan told me you're after some Eastern Europeans. Is that correct?"

"Yeah, yeah… how much did he tell you?" God, what a fucking mess! She found the rose-shaped hairclip somewhere in the pile (not what she was looking for) and began to toy with it nervously.

Alin shrugged. "Not that much. He said you chased them on your own and that was how you got shot. As a warning to stay away, but you only got that – the warning – because they'd thought you were a journalist."

The brunette flinched, abandoning her search and instead leaning back in her chair, crossing her arms. Of course, Sadiq had probably only mentioned how she'd gotten shot and how she needed a man's protection in all this, instead of caring about her actual achievements. Bastard!

"Right," she said sternly." The object of my current investigation is Georgiev's gang. Bulgarians. Their leader's name is a certain Kiril Georgiev, but he's quite an elusive character apparently, so we don't have info about him. Anyway, they've been rather inconspicuous until very recently – they mainly collected protection tax, but since no one dared to complain… That until the owner of a small Italian restaurant, a man named Rome Vargas, decided to put up a fight and gathered his own bad boys. Upon his 'declaration of independence', yesterday around noon Georgiev's boys burst in and swept the place clean with AK 47s. The hired guards and the old man – all dead. His teenage nephew Feliciano is the only survivor and apparently they'd only let him live to spread the word."

The Romanian pursed his mouth and nodded. "Not bothering to hide then, do they?"

"Not in the least. We have the witness and we also have this as evidence," Elizaveta replied, handing him a photo of a baseball bat, old autographs and other markings partially covered by bloodstains. "The fingerprints on it match those of one of Georgiev's men, who happens to have a record." She dug out another photo – this time a standard police shot of front and profile of a bulky looking man with a shaved head and an ugly scar running down his jaw line on the left side.

"Ivan 'Vanko' Balakov – he did time for multiple charges of armed robbery a while back."

Alin frowned at the two pictures and scratched his head. "This was meant as a statement too? Leaving Vanko's baseball bat? Because otherwise I'm wondering what kind of man leaves his tools behind…"

"Could be, who knows. Anyway, Vanko is a minor character as far as I'm concerned. I'm more interested in Georgiev's 'chief of operations' so to speak. It's this guy."

A smile of satisfaction played on the Hungarian's lips as she passed him the next photo – a candid shot of a young man smoking casually, leaning onto the hood of a black Chevrolet SUV. He had jet black hair and light colored eyes – probably blue or green – and wore a simple grey hoodie and black jeans and sneakers.

"That's the chief of operations?"

"Tsvetan Borisov, twenty-six years old. No previous record, not even a speeding ticket. Crazy enough, he went to college until a couple of years ago, when he mysteriously quit. And I really mean 'mysteriously', because he'd been a brilliant student up to that point."

Alin's eyebrow shot up as he took the photo and studied it carefully. "Yeah? What'd he study?"

"Chemistry."

"Ugh…" he groaned. "So… any idea why Georgiev might have hired him? I mean he's a nerd and gangs don't usually hire nerds unless there is a clear purpose. So what could they be making – explosives, synthetic drugs? What would they use a chemist for?"

The brunette shrugged. "No indication they're making any of these. But the kid – Feliciano Vargas – declared that Borisov was in the first line of fire, so to speak. He might have been a nerd back in the day, but now he's a full-fledged thug apparently."

"Huh, that's odd…"

"How come? It says in your file that you have a degree in universal literature, yet two years after graduation you're a police rifleman, not a teacher or something. That's not odd?" To tell the truth, she'd found that part rather baffling. Along with something else, but maybe she'd ask about that later…

"Maybe… I mean I like books a lot, but children not so much. And then I really like guns," Alin offered, smiling sheepishly.

The detective rolled her eyes. "Then there's your answer, maybe he likes guns too."

"Let's hope he doesn't like bombs…"

* * *

The first time he'd eaten there he'd thought the food tasted a bit funny and now he knew why. Every time Vanko brought down the meat cleaver forcefully onto the piece he was chopping, bits of ash from his cigarette dropped down onto the meat slices. But then the man wouldn't know that, since he was currently wearing a pair of brand-new Ray Ban shades on top of everything.

When they were without other work Vanko worked as a cook in Georgiev's restaurant and out of boredom Tsvetan had followed him down to the kitchen, if only to see him bully the rest of the staff, who were just as sloppy and careless as he was. Three years ago, when he'd started with washing the dishes, Vanko had tried to bully him too. But he was as numb as an empty shell and all the shit had just bounced off him.

Helping himself with a cigarette from the man's pack lying on the table, Tsvetan lit up and decided he'd seen enough when a rubber glove flew and smacked the cheek of the boy currently doing the dishes. He walked out through the beaded curtain and made his way into the small, cozy restaurant. With an ironic snort, the dark-haired young man thought that Georgiev's place looked pretty much like the Italian's they'd just thrashed, although the furniture was a tad less classy. But fuck, no one was ever going to barge in there and start shooting anytime soon, that was for sure. He didn't know what the hell was up with the old man wanting to run a traditional Bulgarian restaurant when the club in the basement below was bringing all the bucks, but when he'd set foot in it for the first time it had nearly got him fooled that it was a decent place.

The day after his mother's funeral.

Tsvetan briefly pinched his nose and sniffed, motioning for the man at the bar to pour him a glass of rakia. Pulling an ashtray closer, he lowered the cigarette and numbly watched the smoke rise up and dissipate into the air. It was in moments like this, when he sat with nothing to do, that the Bulgarian began wondering what the fuck he was really doing here. He may not have graduated and gotten his degree, but still he was an educated man, from a decent family, while Vanko and the others had crawled out of God-knew-what shithole.

He loathed them, but at first all he'd thought of was that he wanted to find those bastards who had robbed the small pawn shop where his mother was working and had left her lying in a pool of blood. He'd needed Georgiev to send them six feet under and the old man was old-fashioned enough to want to help a young fellow Bulgarian who was ready to serve him with all the dedication of a man who'd lost everything. Not that Georgiev would have ever had a problem blowing a compatriot's brains out if they had a mind to get in his way, that was. He hailed from Sofia and had wreaked plenty of havoc there before deciding to move to the States and 'spread his wings'.

Downing his drink in one gulp, his gaze wandered beyond the large windows and into the empty street. No, wait. The street wasn't exactly empty – there was a car parked on the other side of the street - and Tsvetan thought he was having a déjà-vu. But no, it was her, that woman, the supposed journalist Stanko had shot at the other day. She was in a different car this time and wearing a pair of shades, but the long, chestnut hair was still tumbling down her shoulders in rich, soft waves. His eyes narrowed - yeah, it was her alright.

Waiting.

Tsvetan had a very distinctive gut feeling that she wasn't a journalist. Where the hell had that come from, anyway? Maybe the fucking half-assed cook he'd left back in the kitchen was hoping to make the first page of the newspapers or something! The Bulgarian scowled, unable to remember who it had been to suggest such an absurd idea. No, he was ready to bet all his savings on it – the young brunette waiting outside, in the dark brown, used-up Renault was a cop.

* * *

Elizaveta stopped dead in her tracks in the middle of the hallway, seeing him standing straight and rigid in the door of his office talking to someone. Her mouth turned into a pained grimace as she was left unable to help staring, clutching her keys inanely in her hand. And he did notice, because he threw her a fleeting gaze, but his eyes behind the thin, gold-rimmed glasses were cold as ice. A discreet snort seemed to leave his thin lips as well, before he focused again on the young officer he was currently scolding.

"Good morning, detective Héderváry!" The Hungarian nearly jumped, startled by officer Gilbert Beilschmidt's loud and highly irritating voice. His wide grin only made it worse.

"Vasile is already waiting for you outside, at the car. Oh, and I'd steer clear from detective _Edelschmuck _today,it looks like he got up on the wrong side of the bed again," the albino warned.

Yeah, it looked like it and today was not the day she'd try to talk some sense into her ex-partner and lover, Elizaveta decided. She had other things to do. Turning around abruptly on her heels she headed towards the exit, gripping her messenger bag so tightly that her nails nearly pierced the old leather.

The strawberry blond was indeed waiting by a regular police car – did they really have to be so obvious? Apparently Sadiq thought so… – a small polite smile on his face, but it quickly fell off when seeing her expression. And she _was_ angry, frustratingly unable to shake off the image of Roderich's stern, unfriendly look from earlier. With a brisk step, she walked straight to the car and slammed her boot viciously into one of the front tires.

"Hey, hey! Whatever it is-"

"'Whatever it is' what?!" the Hungarian snapped. "'Whatever it is we can work it out'? Is that what you were going to say?!"

Alin rolled his eyes, but otherwise remained unfazed by the undeserved outburst. "Actually I was going to say 'whatever it is, don't take it out on the car, because all it takes is a harder kick and it will probably fall apart'."

The brunette scowled, eyeing the standard squad Ford Crown critically, but now that she'd let off some steam, she felt much better. It wasn't exactly new, but… "Come on, it's not _that_ shitty. And _I'm_ driving."

* * *

She'd always thought Romanians talked a lot – Vasile wasn't saying a word. He wasn't asking what was wrong, or why she'd snapped at him like that, he was just… And it was odd, since for almost half a year now she'd gotten used to doing everything alone. Ever since… well. Elizaveta supposed she could, no, maybe should explain something.

"So… Alin, " the detective began, briefly clearing her throat and feeling rather awkward that they'd be better off on a first-name basis. "I guess Sadiq told you why I prefer to work alone… because of my partner… um… ex-partner, that is… right?"

Red eyes continued to stare right ahead, indifferent, while the young officer chewed on his thumbnail. "Frankly no, he didn't," he replied neutrally. "I know he got shot and it took three months until he was able to get back to work – but that's public info, I think."

Elizaveta took a sharp breath. There had been no hostility in his words, but she knew how most people felt about Roddy. And Beilschmidt – Alin's friend – had had several epic rows with the Austrian.

"You don't like him."

The rifleman shrugged. "I've never worked with the guy."

"Well, in short, the thing is that I don't want anyone to get hurt because of me," the brunette blurted out. "When he was hurt-…" she paused, gripping the wheel harder, "Well I didn't back him up fast enough and he can be quite stubborn, so…"

Fuck, that had sounded like a half-assed babbling of the worst sort! Just lame. And this compulsive need to apologize! No one, no one had blamed her for what had happened, but him. He'd fucking rushed in without back-up, without nothing, despite her asking him not to… and then… she really didn't want to think about those dreadful moments when she'd thought she'd lost him.

"Look Elizaveta, I'm just your rifleman. You don't have to explain anything. Shit happens, yeah?"

"Yep," she agreed, eyes fixed on the road and licking her dry lips. A change of subject would have been welcome and she had just the thing. "Now my question is – _why_ are you just a rifleman? Says in your file that you refused promotion. Don't you want to be a detective? Who the hell just refuses promotion, anyway?"

The strawberry blond grinned, offering her a surprisingly sharp-toothed smile. "I'll tell you later…."

_**To be continued**_


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

A/N – Aaaaaah this is all your evil influence, you-know-who! Look what you made me write… Gah! Yep, my devious brain had nothing to do with it…

* * *

Tsvetan flipped his cell open and frowned slightly at the caller id. "Yeah?"

"Tsve, we're at the warehouse. And I've just spotted that bitch from the other day snooping around and taking pictures again, the one you saw waiting across from the restaurant. You were right, Tsve, she's with a patrol police car this time!"

Well, well, big surprise. He scrubbed a hand over his face and took a deep breath. "Vanko, listen to me carefully, we can't allow this to go any further. I want you, Krasimir and Georgi to go out and get your hands on her, now! We must find out what she knows and then get rid of her," he ordered firmly.

"Get rid…?" Just great, Vanko sounded like he'd crapped his pants again. Typical."But Tsve, she's a fucking _cop_!"

Tsvetan dropped his cigarette butt and stomped on it furiously. "And I don't fucking care, okay?! Pull your shit together and do it! I'm on my way there right now!"

* * *

Stuffing the camera back inside her messenger bag, Elizaveta walked back to the car with a small smug grin on her face. Maybe her weird partner hadn't been wrong after all when he'd wondered whether Georgiev was actually selling funny stuff. It must have been something, otherwise why would he need a warehouse? At any rate, the more info she gathered, the more chances they went down at the deep end. And after she'd seen little Feliciano Vargas sobbing and shaking in that hospital bed - beaten up, terrified out of his mind and left with no one in the world - she wanted nothing less.

"We'll have to come back some other time, when there's no one around," the Hungarian said, settling into the driver's seat. "I need to see what's inside."

Alin was chewing again on his thumbnail while observing the brick building thoughtfully. "Shouldn't you get a warrant for that and come back with reinforcements? Because if you're caught breaking in just like that you're basically a trespasser."

"Nah, if I get a warrant they'll find out we're investigating their business and they'll be on their guard. I don't want that," the brunette said, setting the car in motion.

It was good what she'd got today though – several snapshots of the warehouse itself close-up and of several vehicles in the parking lot. She'd run their license plates back at the station just in case, although she frankly doubted any of them were actually registered on any of Georgiev's men. They were most likely stolen and given a quick paintjob.

"Anyway, maybe if I get a breakthrough-" The Hungarian's words were cut short when she suddenly saw in rearview that a black van had appeared out of nowhere right behind them. "What the-…?" She didn't finish the sentence before the wing mirror on her side exploded and Elizaveta pulled at the wheel abruptly. "FUCK! WHAT THE FUCK?!"

Several more shots shattered the rear windshield next – the bastards were after them and they shot to kill this time! Fuck, she'd been discovered! And just today, it fucking had to be today, when Vasile was with her! What if-…what-… No, don't think of this, fucking don't!

"There's no taking a nap on your shift, huh?"

The strawberry blond pulled the visor of his black cap lower and calmly adjusted the standard fingerless black gloves before reaching to the back seat and retrieving a large shotgun the kind of which the detective had not yet seen used by the force. He grinned, giving a small pat to the muzzle.

"Mossberg 500 Cruiser," he clarified, answering her puzzled look. "Not everyone likes it, but it's a good shotgun. Just hold it steady, okay?"

"Wait! Just… try to shoot their tires first!" Elizaveta cried when the Romanian lowered the window on his side and nearly half-climbed out of it to aim. Was he fucking crazy, exposing himself like that?! Trying to drive with only one hand, the detective frantically tried to reach and pull him back by the belt of his trousers, but the rifleman didn't budge, instead she nearly lost control of the car.

"Get back inside, you little fuck!" the Hungarian yelled, again utterly ignored.

The shots continued to hit the car body, rapping mercilessly against the metal, but this time the semi-automatic fire was answered with louder and more precise shots. She struggled to focus on the driving, gripping the wheel with sweaty hands , but she could not help peeking through her rearview. She'd told him to shoot the tires, but apparently Alin had other ideas. The first shot went through one of the pursuing vehicle's headlights and he swore, but then the next pierced the windshield on the driver's side. The van swayed dangerously, tires screeching on the concrete, but he continued to shoot until the glass was nearly shattered and the incoming fire stopped completely. Then the van just spun out of control and climbed the sidewalk, eventually crashing violently into a brick fence.

Elizaveta slammed the brakes and grabbed the radio with a shaking hand, ignoring the very vague but nevertheless disturbing smell of smoke wafting towards her nose as Alin and his blasted gun slipped back inside the car. Instead she focused on communicating the circumstances and location of the accident and asking for reinforcements.

"Don't even think of stepping out of the car!" she yelled afterwards, although the officer hadn't made a single move indicating that he would."And don't ever fucking do that to me again, is that clear?! Do you have a fucking death wish, hanging outside the window like that?!"

Her forehead slammed the wheel as the brunette squeezed her eyes shut, panting and feeling a pounding headache settling in slowly but surely.

"With all due respect, detective, don't tell me how to do my job," Alin said softly."And please don't pull at my trousers again, it makes me feel uncomfortable…"

* * *

Tsvetan had moved fast – the warehouse was a mere ten minutes drive away from the restaurant – and he'd caught sight of Vanko's van as they'd begun to pursue the police car. And then the idiots had started to fire – he wanted the bitch alive damn it! – and from then on things had gone very wrong. And he probably wouldn't have suggested that they try to capture her at all if fucking Vanko had bothered to tell him that _she wasn't alone_!

Then, he'd expected the police to give a warning or something, the Bulgarian thought as he parked half on the sidewalk and rushed out of his own car. The police car had stopped farther away, but no one was getting out. His mind worked fast – they must have called for back-up, so there wasn't any time to lose. He jogged towards the van, choosing to ignore the very real possibility of being fired at from the police car. Speaking of which – hell, that shooter… fuck, he was something else! And the man shot to kill.

Thick smoke was rising from under the ruined hood and the windshield was all holes and cracks, sprayed with blood. As he'd imagined, Vanko was dead in the driver's seat, shot in the head, while Krasimir was wounded badly, barely breathing with his eyes closed. Tsvetan figured he couldn't move him, it was way too dangerous and time-consuming. If the police took him, they'd arrest him but at least he'd live. Instead he knocked loudly on the side door.

"Georgi! It's me, open up! Hurry up, the police is coming!"

The door glided aside slowly, revealing a pale, blond boy, his shaking hand still desperately clutching at a pistol. His face was white as a sheet and some blood was running from the side of his forehead, but otherwise he seemed fine.

"Come on!" Tsvetan urged, pulling the boy out and wrapping one arm around his waist for support as the other stumbled on shaky legs. "Come on, we need to get out of here! Now!"

* * *

He was staring into the golden liquid, observing its sparkle in the dim lights as he swung the glass lightly. He'd never had rakia before but it wasn't half bad, if a tad disappointing on the strength. Well, it was strong enough to send the kids crowded around the club under the table, but not someone who could really hold their liquor. Alin sighed, taking another gulp, and told himself he wasn't doing this because he needed diversity. No, it was a just reason… or something. Gilbert was good enough when it came to it, he could even say that, well, they loved each other. But lately Gil had some issues of his own which the strawberry blond wasn't in the mood to put up with tonight.

The man from the picture was there – Georgiev's mysterious 'chief of operations' – just as he'd hoped. Kiril Georgiev himself and his other men were not interesting for the Romanian, they were just regular, petty mobsters. There was nothing special about taking them down, nothing whatsoever. Sadiq liked how that sounded – to take someone down – and probably wasn't wondering if this was the least bit unethical. No, the Chief Inspector was just fed up with how many good men he'd lost over the years while sticking to the rulebook and while officially he still did, unofficially he was done with that shit. And Gilbert and Alin had been just what he needed – a couple of 'dirty workers'.

Gilbert wasn't picky – always in for a hunt – but Alin was sometimes, he sought some sort of deeper entertainment out of it. And Elizaveta had been in luck in that respect, because even though Georgiev was technically a little shit, his man Tsvetan Borisov – the brilliant chemistry student turned bad boy overnight - had been definitely an eye-catcher. Alin gathered that he must have been an intelligent man and he was probably proud of it too, which was why his eventual nose dive – oh dear Lord - would be the most epic (and painful) by far. The Romanian stifled a chuckle at the thought.

A pair of dark-green eyes was taking him in with interest in this very moment, the blond knew. Of course, he'd had no idea whether Borisov was interested in men to begin with, but if he hadn't been the rifleman would have just thought of something else. There was always a way and one could say that he was diabolically resourceful.

"Excuse me, did you get in through that door?"

Alin slowly looked up from his glass, the vague traces of his previous smile disappearing completely at the contents and tone of the question asked by the dark-haired young man now standing by his table. He gave the Bulgarian a thoughtful once-over now that the man was finally in front of him – he had a lean but still solid build and was rather handsome, but his eyes were cold and so dark in the semi-obscurity that their real shade was almost indistinguishable. His mouth was set in a thin line and his stern expression and crossed arms only added to his severe air.

Alin disliked frigid people with a stick up their ass on principle, so he decided to be an obnoxious little fuck in turn. "No, I just materialized here somehow," he stated bluntly.

The other wasn't amused. "I'm serious, are you old enough to be here? Because you kind of look underage to me…"

On the long list of types of people the Romanian _fucking loathed_ in various degrees there were also those who picked on how young he looked instead of minding their own fucking business (the old farts!) and those who thought he'd just crap out and start crying or something only because they'd shown their fangs a bit. Borisov apparently fell into both categories.

"I already showed my ID to the big guy by the door."

That was it, a few more words and he'd be in for a massive shit storm, mission be damned. But instead Tsvetan sat down and suddenly smiled. "I know. I was just teasing you, that's all. Twenty-four, huh…"

"You what, _inquired_ about my age?" So Borisov was a creepy stalker, too.

"What, you don't look twenty-four! A man's got the right to be surprised."

"And you don't look like an asshole either. Asking about a man's age like that is rude," the Romanian pointed dryly."And what, you own this place or something, asking this kind of questions?"

The other smiled again, leaning over the table. "I guess you can say that, yes. And I want to make sure everything runs smoothly, wouldn't want any trouble with the law now."

There was a dark, mischievous glint in his green eyes as he said it and Alin fought back his own smirk. Hah! I'm sure you wouldn't want any trouble with the law, well fuck me – aren't you a model citizen, Mr. Borisov… And he was definitely interested, it had just been a reason to strike up conversation, otherwise he wouldn't be lingering around.

"So…" Tsvetan said, briefly raising his hand and motioning to the bartender. "How come I've never seen you here before?"

The rifleman glanced down thoughtfully at his own glass as it was given a refill and shrugged. "I don't have much free time normally, but it's Saturday night and I just wanted to let off some steam so I thought I'd try this… _juice_ of yours."

The Bulgarian's eyes widened and he scowled before snorting."My friend, rakia _is not_ juice… it's a spirit. Have you been drinking it like juice by any chance?"

"Well it's made of fruit, is it not?" the strawberry blond said innocently, biting his lip. "It's not that strong either," he added shaking his head. "The flavor's nice though, otherwise I would have gone for vodka." There, a tiny little slap in the face for the man's national pride, the Romanian thought. Served him right for being patronizing.

Borisov blinked a couple of times and then nodded slowly. "I'm Tsvetan. And you are….? Mr. heavy-drinker and definitely-not-from-around-here-because-you-still-have-a-bit-of-a-funny-accent?"

Fucking smartass… He forced a friendly smile on his face, but luckily he'd always been good at faking it. "Alin. I'm Romanian. Please don't ask me anything about Dracula though, it kind of irks me…"

The other shifted a bit closer. "And… Alin," the dark-haired young man tried his name on his lips, "why are you alone on a Saturday night?"

"Who knows? Maybe precisely because fucking everyone asks that."

Alin was also endlessly irked by the standard questions everyone was asking when it came to dating and even casual encounters, shit like 'why are you still single' or 'how long was your longest relationship' and shit like that. Why _the fuck_ did they have to ask that? He fought back his annoyance this time – after all he'd expected he'd have to put up with it if he wanted to get Borisov - and only gulped down his drink, sliding off the bar stool. Red eyes trailed for a brief moment back to the Bulgarian and he put on a small mischievous smile before walking off towards the dance floor. It didn't matter, Mr. Tsvetan 'Smartass' Borisov would just pay for everything eventually when Alin was going to have him for breakfast.

Tsvetan sipped at his own drink, appreciatively glancing at the blond's backside hugged by black denim as he walked away. Twenty-four… but he fucking looked so much younger, in the red sleeveless top, black slim-cut jeans and converses. And damn he was fine, just what he needed to take his mind off how absolutely fucked the past few days had been. He just needed to forget everything and it looked like the perfect cure was there, right under his nose. He finished the last of his rakia and stood up, following his intended prey.

* * *

"Looks like I caught you…" the green-eyed young man whispered in Alin's ear, after propping both his hands against the wall and trapping him in a darker spot, away from the colorful lasers sweeping over the swaying crowd. He mistook the blond's genuine amusement for nervousness as he pressed his body a bit closer, teasingly. "So, are you looking for trouble, Alin?"

"Are you…?" Red orbs looked up at him, unreadable."… big guy? You think you're the man because you own this place?" he challenged.

Tsvetan chuckled. "I don't really own the place, I just work here."

"What, bouncer?"

He faltered a bit under the Romanian's scrutinizing gaze, but there was something teasing in it too, beyond the obvious shyness. "No… I'm a… I'm a cook actually." He couldn't help mirroring the other's smile as the blond scowled playfully. "What, you can't picture me with an apron and a chef's hat on?"

"I can picture you with a meat cleaver. What the hell do you cook, other people?"

That was it, the Bulgarian decided, little Alin was playing a bit too much for his own good. He lowered his hands slowly, then suddenly captured the blond's in a firm grip, wheeling around and starting to pull him away through the crowd towards a side door. Soon enough, they'd have some privacy away from the club's suffocating atmosphere and the pervasive, heavy scent of smoke and sweat and what-not. Not that the restaurant's kitchens were an ideal place, but he'd had a malicious idea all the sudden, so they'd be making a quick stop there as well.

"What the-…?" the rifleman grumbled while being dragged up some suspicious dark staircase and then through some cheap-looking beaded curtain into a space plagued by a vague smell of burnt food and… garbage?

"What? Come on, I just want to show you where I work," Tsvetan said innocently, pulling his prey's hand and leading him among the metal tables, various devices and dish racks.

A light bulb was flickering dangerously, bathing the deserted kitchen in a pale, grayish light and making it look rather sinister. Perfect, he thought, heading towards the utensils panel. Alin's steps had slowed as he stared around cautiously and a bit displeased (big surprise and the dark-haired young man was willing to bet a lot of money that after this he wouldn't even dream of ordering food at this particular restaurant) and he let go of his hand, walking purposely towards the panel, having found just what he was looking for.

"Say Alin, is this how you'd picture me?" he asked grinning, holding up the biggest meat cleaver he could find. If he were to be honest, the fucking thing kind of gave him the creeps too and Tsvetan would have been glad to just toss it as far away from himself as possible. Eeeek!

The Romanian blinked, his eyes widening as he stood there frozen, his lips slightly parted and he seemed to barely breathe.

"Cool, huh?" the green-eyed man chuckled, teeth grazing over his bottom lip as he weighed the handle in his hand impatiently. "Let me show you how it's used." He brought the blade down as hard as he could, so that it stuck into the wooden top.

Alin flinched and took a few steps back, covering his eyes with his hands, apparently horrified. Still chuckling, Tsvetan abandoned the utensil and walked up to him, capturing his hands again and moving them away from his face, instead bringing them together behind his back. He tilted his head, brushing his lips over the blond's, causing him to draw a sharp breath. Fuck, was he blushing a bit? But this was going too slow…

The Bulgarian got hold of the other's waist and lifted him to sit onto the table, settling between his legs. He caught his lower lip between his teeth and nipped at it, pulling, coaxing him to open his mouth, then kissed him roughly, forcefully. Eager fingers slipped under the hem of Alin's shirt, encountering the soft skin underneath, while his tongue explored his mouth, having taken control almost without any resistance.

"Mmhhh…" he groaned at last, pulling away."I think I've decided, I want to eat you up. Huh, I could boil you in the soup, you know?" Green-eyes darted suggestively towards the meat cleaver stuck into the table top not very far. "What do you think?" he chuckled, painfully unaware that the Romanian would have actually been able to reach the horrible instrument first.

The strawberry blond smiled widely, showing sharp teeth Tsvetan had not observed up to that point. "I think that if you read "Hansel and Gretel" you know who wanted to cook and eat and who ended up in the oven eventually… Aside from that, I get that you're all about your job, but-…." He threw a broad glance around and scrunched up his nose playfully.

"Yeah…" Tsvetan cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "I do have a small bedroom upstairs."

* * *

Borisov wore expensive cologne, he mentally noted while the small oak door was closed behind him and he found himself pinned to it and his neck licked and nipped at. Good quality clothes too – his fingers worked on the buttons of the dark green shirt and slipped over the fine leather of the belt. Pay attention to details – the rifleman reminded himself – it keeps your head clear. The Bulgarian was an attractive man, Alin gave him that, but he was dangerous and letting go while around him was a bad idea. Trusting the man even the slightest bit was out of the question and he had serious trust issues on principle. No, it was this handsome man whose hands now pulled his own shirt over his head who would trust _him_ and lose the game.

He glanced past Tsvetan's frame into the room – well fuck, the man may have had a 'bedroom', but there was no actual bed in it. A mattress which didn't look particularly 'user-friendly' occupied most of the floor, but it was probably better this way, the inviting softness of a bed would have maybe given the chance of too much 'fluff' happening between them and Alin didn't do fluff. Not with strangers he only wanted to send behind bars.

Teeth sunk into the sensitive skin of his chest so hard that he hissed in pain, the strawberry blond's fingers gripping the green-eyed man's hair and pulling to shove him away. Tsvetan shot up, right hand instantly gripping the other's throat, before he was backhanded rather brutally. A fist flew in response and collided with Alin's face, blood gushing from his nose as they both tumbled onto the mattress and the Bulgarian managed to pin him down under his weight.

"You're a nasty little bastard, aren't you?" the dark-haired young man growled angrily, pondering whether he should throw another punch just in case, but the strawberry blond only smirked cheekily, eventually managing to free one hand and using it to wipe some of the blood off his face.

"Yes, but you like it."

The Bulgarian's lips curled into a smirk of acknowledgement as he leaned in and kissed Alin sloppily on the mouth, licking some of the blood from his upper lip, somewhat relishing in the metallic taste, his hands resuming their exploration of the other's now half bare body. Until he was unexpectedly kicked in the stomach.

"For that, it's going to hurt. Badly," he promised, clawing the rest of their clothing off.

There was a half-full bottle of vodka next to the mattress and Tsvetan picked it up, flicking the cork off with his thumb and took a hearty swig while still pinning the Romanian down with one hand. The blond reached for it too with his free hand, but the dark-haired man only replaced the cork and made it roll onto the floor, out of his reach.

"Nah-ah-ah… not until we're done."

Red eyes glared back at him. "You selfish fuck!"

Alin mentally braced himself for the pain, but when it came it was so bad that it nearly knocked the air out of his lungs. No, don't think of it! Don't think-… His eyes swept over the dust covered bulb hanging on a mere thread and the cracks in the ceiling, while he desperately bit onto his lower lip, drawing new blood in addition to the one still trickling a bit from his nose. His nails raked viciously over Tsvetan's bare shoulders and over his biceps, his left one adorned with a thorny rose tattoo. The flower was spread onto the muscle, while the strain with leaves and thorns wound down around his arm all the way to his wrist. Fuck! Why the fuck did he have a rose tattoo? Right now he could feel all those thorns ripping at his insides in a pumping motion and he wanted to scream, God he wanted to but… somewhere beyond all the darkness and the horror and the pain there was a spark of pleasure, tiny but growing, growing until… fuck…

* * *

Tsvetan lit up a cigarette, oblivious of the sticky, bloody mess now tainting the tangled sheets. Next to him the Romanian was still panting a bit, his pale, smooth chest heaving and his ruby colored eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. His soft hair was deliciously ruffled and wet with sweat and a bit of the blood which was also partially smeared onto his cheek. Fuck, he was so cute it should have been illegal. He propped himself up on one elbow and took a long drag before bringing the cigarette to Alin's swollen lips.

"You okay there?"

"I want the bottle." His voice sounded choked, like he was about to cry.

_**To be continued**_


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

A/N – Well, just wanted to say thank you for your support in writing this major bullshit for my inner demons alone. It means so much to me.

* * *

It was pleasantly cool at last after a literally hot night and he reached up to open the window above them a bit more. Tsvetan had long taken the habit of being an early riser and he took a strange pleasure in observing the stillness of the world sunken in sleep. He propped himself up on one elbow, for now resisting the urge to grab his pack of cigarettes. His eyes fell on the bottle of vodka, lying on the floor empty next to a certain passed out but nevertheless delightful blond.

Alin was asleep – he'd fallen asleep almost immediately _after_ – and the Bulgarian's gaze rested on his pale features, thoughtful. The previous night had been one of a kind, Tsvetan thought, it didn't happen often that he got so much satisfaction out of a fleeting affair and it was even rarer that he'd actually _wake up_ next to someone.

Hell, and to think – he'd only wanted something to take his mind off things, to forget. Vanko was dead, Krasimir he didn't know, arrested if he was still alive. Would he talk to the police? And if yes, just how much would he say to them? Georgiev wanted to recruit more men now, but new men were always a complication, at least until they proved themselves trustworthy. And Tsvetan had an issue about how Georgiev actually recruited his men – he didn't trust foreigners, so he would either 'import' them from his old connections back in Bulgaria or persuade men with difficult situations from the community here in the States. That was how they'd ended up with Georgi – a kid forced to work and support his family way ahead of time. The old man had hired him for the same reason why he'd hired Tsvetan, but while the former chemistry student had proven a quick learner and fit for it, Georgi clearly lacked the stomach for the job.

So yes, he should have thought of all that, but instead the green-eyed young man crept out from under the sheets and, with his own cell phone in hand, dug into the pile of clothing scattered randomly across the floor until he found Alin's phone. He picked it and dialed in his own number, sending a text to his phone. He then saved Alin's number in his agenda and the other way around before replacing the Romanian's phone into the back pocket of his discarded jeans.

Tsvetan reached out and lightly ran the tips of his fingers along the slender thigh and leg exposed, watching as Alin groan and shifted in his sleep. Yep, he'd made a mess of things being so rough – although he _had been_ provoked – and now could only hope that the blond would still want to see him again. There was a most intriguing mixture of wild roughness and fragility about Alin what he found himself wanting to figure out.

Red eyes suddenly blinked and snapped open as the rifleman woke abruptly and craned his neck up in confusion to see where he was.

"Hey there! Did you sleep well?" the dark-haired young man asked softly with a smile, only to be answered with a low groan as the other struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, shaking off the heavy sleep.

"Where the-…? Uh… I-I have to go," Alin mumbled eventually, looking rather uncomfortable.

"I wouldn't sit up too brusquely if I were you," Tsvetan warned, biting back an amused smirk, but the strawberry blond ignored him, hauling himself up and rapidly reaching for his clothes. If he was in pain – hell, he must have been – he hid it surprisingly well as he moved about, dressing up at top speed and collecting his things.

"Will I see you again?" the Bulgarian asked as the other's hand reached for the doorknob and red eyes met green, uncertain. He didn't look upset, as Tsvetan had expected, but rather his expression was blank, unreadable.

He shrugged, sheepishly. "I don't know…" And then he was gone.

* * *

Alin wished that his lover and roommate would at least occasionally take (and keep) his partying somewhere else, but Gilbert and his two best friends always ended up wasted in their small apartment and brought their mess with them. And that wouldn't have been half bad if at least the Prussian had been a clean-up-afterwards kind of person. Which he wasn't.

That Sunday morning wasn't any different and he walked in carefully, reluctant to what he was about to see. Sure thing, Gilbert was passed out on the floor, apparently having barely missed both the sofa and the coffee table, while Antonio was strangely curled up around a pile of empty beer cans, snoring softly. Francis was nowhere in sight for now. The Romanian let his eyes wander around the mess in the room – the scattered pizza boxes, biscuit wrappers, bottles and yet more empty beer cans - momentarily forgetting what had been eating at him ever since he'd stumbled out of Borisov's 'bedroom', namely the thought that he'd allowed himself to actually spend the night there. God, he'd _fallen asleep_ next to that fuck!

But then the sound of the toilet being flushed pulled him back from his observations and he turned slowly to see the Frenchman stepping out of the bathroom, looking rather disheveled. And for some mysterious reason, just like every single time they'd met, Francis wasn't wearing any clothes.

"Hey Francis… nice to see you…"

"Well, good morning, _mon ami_. We are very happy to see you too!"

Alin kept his eyes trained on the man's face while nodding slowly, refusing to ascertain the reason as to why the other blond had used a _plural_ when referring to himself.

"Well _mon cher,_ you look like you've had a bit of a rough night yourself," Francis observed. "I was going to go and prepare some breakfast, what would you like?"

The strawberry blond shrugged. "Oh, whatever you're making is fine, thank you… " The Frenchman waltzed to the kitchen, whistling a happy tune. "Uh… there's an apron somewhere in there, so maybe… use it?"

"Nonsense, _mon ami_, do you not know that true beauty should not be hidden away under garments?"

The rifleman scowled and rolled his eyes. Yeah. Right. Some stirring was heard in the living room and Alin walked back to see that Gilbert had sat up somehow and was starring confusedly at the noodles plastered onto the TV screen. His hand instantly flew to his mouth and all the rakia and vodka he'd been having the night before didn't exactly help when his stomach turned at the sight of _what_ was splattered all over the albino's shirt and onto the carpet where he'd been laying before. Obliviously trampling over the mess, the Romanian rushed to the window and opened it widely, leaning over the sill and breathing in large gulps of the cool, fresh morning air, struggling to push away the nausea while he wiped sweat beads off his forehead with a shaky hand.

"Well, look who's back," the other croaked behind him, followed by some mumbled profanities as Gilbert unsuccessfully tried to prop himself up on the coffee table and it toppled over. Hands still clutching at the window sill, he didn't turn around just yet, hoping to appease his upset stomach a bit more before he'd face the mess.

"You got into a fight again," the Prussian went on, his voice a bit more clear this time."Mein Gott, you know… I don't like this. Someone as fragile as you should not…" he paused, wiping his nose awkwardly.

Alin sighed, turning at last. "I'm not fragile, Gil, and I didn't get into a fight," he said softly, still carefully avoiding the sight of his boyfriend.

"Hah, sure! Because your nose is only _a bit_ broken! I-I care for you! And if you must… I wish you'd stick to only fucking offenders if it's really necessary, without all this violent… stuff!"

"Gil, I love you too and I really appreciate your constructive speeches, you know that, I just wish you didn't choose to deliver them when there's a huge bruise on your face and you're covered in barf."

The Prussian's eyes widened innocently and his face had a comical expression as he looked down at himself. "But… ah… I'm not even sure it's my barf…." But then immediately afterwards his face turned even paler than his usual complexion and he clambered to his feet at top speed and rushed to the bathroom in frenzy.

"It is now…" the strawberry blond muttered, looking around the room disgusted. This is going to take a fucking lot of work to clean up… What the fuck?! Well the fuck, I'm not doing it! He walked back out, carefully stepping over Antonio's still peacefully sleeping form and headed to the bathroom. A pleasant smell wafted from the kitchen and reached his nostrils, but the Romanian figured he couldn't put anything in his mouth just now.

* * *

The pale, cold light of the bathroom bulb gave his face a sickly air as Alin stared in the mirror, assessing the damage of the previous night. It was minimal, fortunately, at least by his standards. He fumbled with the faucets, letting cold water run and splashing it generously over his face, cleaning up the bits of dried blood. And only now, as he was hunched over the sink, did he fully realise the extent of fatigue and ache in his body.

Behind him, Gilbert was still kneeling in front of the toilet, looking uncertain as to whether he was done or not, and the strawberry blond decided he'd just have to deal with the man later. He closed the door and peeled off his clothes, throwing them on the floor in a messy pile and stepped in the shower.

The hot water running down his back finally turned the dull ache into vivid pain and the rifleman let out a groan, propping his hands onto the wet tiles of the shower wall as he squeezed his eyes shut. He nearly flinched when the shower curtain was drawn back and soon after he felt strong hands rubbing onto his shoulders and down his arms. Alin pushed away from the wall slowly and leaned backwards, his back now resting against the Prussian's strong chest as the other nuzzled the side of his neck. It was alright for now, he was… _safe_.

"So how's the hunt going so far?"

How indeed… Borisov clearly liked him, wanted to see him again. Yeah, he could bet. However, Alin wasn't sure if he ever wanted to look at the man again, other than through the scope of a sniper rifle. After all, he was one of Sadiq's dirty workers and the Chief Inspector had given them the green light when it came to that sort of stuff. But now that he thought of it, shooting the man was a bit too easy. And maybe Tsvetan Borisov deserved more than a quick, painless way to go, maybe he deserved all the pain and humiliation of going down big time and spending a considerable chunk of his miserable life behind bars.

"He's trying a bit too hard – to be a smartass, to dominate, to be rough… I smell a weakness somewhere, Gil, and I'll find it."

"I know you will, Schatz," his boyfriend said softly, picking up the soap. "But not now, not just now…"

* * *

Elizaveta's fingers drummed lightly over the picture on top of the pile as she stared at it blankly. Why would they be needing a warehouse? And why was this piece of info so important that it had nearly gotten her killed? She glanced fleetingly at the thick file laying further away on her paper-laden desk – for once Sadiq had made use of his multiple connections back in Europe and he'd obtained comprehensive info on Kiril Georgiev from the Sofia police.

Now, at last, the man had a face and a story. However, she couldn't say that it helped too much, if anything only confirmed what her new partner disguised as a simple rifleman had suspected. Georgiev was indeed what one could call a 'petty' mobster – he'd robbed, ransacked, demanded protection taxes from small bars and restaurants in shitty neighborhoods he and his men diligently kept under their boot, but there was no record of him ever owning any kind of big estate or facility. But now his business was probably growing and expanding into new 'territory', thanks to the new smart guy – Tsvetan Borisov. The Hungarian had a feeling that this man - who had trained and let himself appear no more than a regular thug - was way smarter than let out.

And they might have had something more, now that one of the men chasing them had been taken into custody. Krasimir Antonov was still in intensive care, but she hoped he would be good for interrogation soon enough.

There was a soft knock on the door and Alin walked in with light steps and a quizzical look on his face.

"Yep, I wanted to see you," the brunette confirmed, motioning for the seat in front of her desk. She couldn't help noticing that he looked rather tired, but not like someone who'd had a particularly good weekend out partying. Hell, she'd had a horrible one, pretty much moping around while unsuccessfully trying to get her mind off the whole thing with Roddy. Why? Why did he hate her so much all the sudden?

"Look, Alin," Elizaveta began, wearily, "I think we should talk a bit… You know, about what's eating us up and stuff. It's only fair now that we're partners, and don't come up with that thing again that you're just my rifleman, because I know Sadiq wants you to do a bit more than just shooting."

Red eyes took her in curiously for a moment, as the other appeared to mull over what he'd just been told, before focusing down in his own lap. "Okay."

The Hungarian nodded. "Okay… So, I want to know why you refused promotion."

Alin chewed on his lip. "Well, it wasn't a _full_ refusal, actually. I didn't refuse the pay, just the title. So it's not-"

"But the credit for all the brainwork goes to someone else!" the detective interrupted."The detective you're working with at any given time gets all the glory for it, right? Are you telling me you're quite alright with that?"

The strawberry blond looked up at her, a strange smile on his face. "Well with me it's really about winning, you know? If I catch them, I win. You know, very soon after I'd joined the force I read this article that the Mafia usually has access to the names and personal info of all detectives in a certain city or town, and they keep them and even trade them, just in case… I found it rather disturbing, to be honest. But then I thought – on the other hand, nobody gives a flying fuck about police riflemen. They all look the same in the standard equipment, most aren't particularly bright and from the big fish point of view they're just negligible quantity, some faceless little shits getting gunned down by the dozen at any major face off." He leaned forward, his voice lowering to almost a whisper. "That's why they never see me coming. That's the ace up my sleeve."

Elizaveta leaned back in her chair, thoughtful. "I may have a fishy feeling about this 'ace up your sleeve'…"

"Like what?"

"Like… maybe you've got the green light for doing stuff _off the record_," the brunette pointed. "During the shooting last week I had this very clear feeling. You gave those bastards no warning- I mean hell, I know they were out to get us, but police always gives a warning before opening fire. Do you even know why that is, officer Vasile?"

The Romanian nodded, innocently. "To keep casualties to a minimum?"

"Exactly," Elizaveta stated. "Not on your list, apparently."

Alin shrugged. "Keeping you alive is on my list. Besides, I put two and two together – you snooped around carelessly for too long and Borisov realised who you are. He gave you a warning, but you ignored it. Now he wants you dead and sent his men after you. Simple. Warning be damned, you know they weren't going to stop shooting, not when they had us outnumbered."

The detective scowled. She wanted to snap and tell him that his 'lone gunman' methods were probably going to result in him laying dead in a ditch way before his time, but found she didn't have the energy. If Sadiq had thought this man was good enough for the job… then maybe he was.

"Anyway, was that what was eating you up?"

The Hungarian propped herself on her elbows on top of the mess on her desk and scrubbed a hand over her face, allowing her eyes to fall shut for a moment. "No… I was just curious… Thing is, this morning I called the hospital to see if the Vargas kid remembers anything else we might use and… they moved him to the psychiatry ward. He's not well… not well…" She took a deep breath, then reached for her cup of coffee and took a large gulp.

"That sucks," the rifleman offered, rather awkwardly.

"Yeah and… that's why I have to make a good job out of this case, put those fucks behind bars as soon as possible and with a solid enough file to make sure they fucking stay there, too! Because of the Vargas kid and because… well, looks like I need to prove myself as a detective too, since Edelstein has filed a report against me…"

The brunette resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands as she blurted it out at last.

The chair creaked as her new partner shifted. "What?"

"Yeah…" Fuck, I really don't want to talk about this, not with him, but hell… better out than in. "He's accused me of negligence, basically he claims he's been shot because of me. And if this goes through, I will be taken off fieldwork permanently. I'll just end up doing some shit desk work."

She straightened her back and brought her hands together on top of the papers, intertwining her fingers and trying to appear as composed as she could muster under the circumstances.

"But I thought the facts were clear-cut already… I doubt Sadiq could think or be brought solid evidence that the whole thing _wasn't_ detective Edelstein's fuck-up… right?"

Elizaveta shrugged. "At this point, I don't even know. But I worked very hard to get to where I am now and this case is crucial, so please study this crap." She handed him the Kiril Georgiev file. "To be honest, I don't care how dirty this gets."

Oh dear Lord, she had no idea.

* * *

There was work to do and stuff to take care of, and Tsvetan knew he shouldn't have wasted his time thinking about the rainy Sunday morning when a certain cute Romanian had walked out his bedroom door without answering… But there was something endlessly intriguing about this young man and the Bulgarian wanted to know, _needed_ to figure him out. And oh well, getting him in his bed again wouldn't have been that bad either…

* * *

Alin stretched his legs under the table and sighed boredly, flipping through the pages. Just like he'd thought – Georgiev was a bland little shit. A dangerous one, no doubt, but uninteresting, he'd been just lucky to get Borisov to work for him. Why or how, that remained to be seen. As he leafed through the thick file, suddenly a picture fell from between the pages, probably misplaced by Elizaveta. It was a family picture of young Feliciano Vargas, together with his grandfather, taken on a sunny day in front of their newly opened restaurant. The boy was beaming at the camera, his light brown eyes bright with joy.

And now this happy, joyful kid had been taken to the psychiatry ward, while his only living family had ended up six feet under. The strawberry blond paled at the thought - a pained grimace twisting his mouth as he stared at the photo - and when his cell-phone rang suddenly, he reached for it absentmindedly. Then he saw the caller id and let out a bitter snort.

Tsvetan Borisov.

_**To be continued**_


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

A/N – My dear readers, before we move on to the next chapter, I just want to say 'thank you' for all your wonderful feedback. Have fun!

* * *

Alin didn't remember giving him his number, but well, the presumptuous fuck had just taken it, apparently. He went through my things when I was asleep, I see – good thing there wasn't much to go through. Which means he is quite interested… The strawberry blond scowled, despite the positive conclusion, letting the phone ring as he got momentarily stuck going over and over the idea of his things being searched. It stirred some very old and very bad memories and it just bugged him to no end. But then Feliciano Vargas' picture was still lying on the table, that innocent, helpless smile nudging him to take action, to not let Tsvetan Borisov get away, no he couldn't-… Oh, fuck! Rubbing the moisture off his eyes briefly with the heels of his palms, the Romanian finally picked up the phone and punched the answering key.

"Yeah?" It took a considerable effort to keep irritation out of his voice as he answered and instead fake a bored sort of purr.

"Hey there… I realize this must be a bit unexpected, but, well to be honest I couldn't help it," Borisov said. "I know I should have probably asked for your number, but then I wasn't sure you'd give it."

So you just took it, because 'privacy' and 'personal space' just aren't in your fucking dictionary… nor could it ever occur to you that someone could ever fucking say 'no' to the great YOU… Alin threw a wide glance around the mostly empty open-space, looking for something to help him calm down, because he was getting more worked up by the second. Sadiq was still in his office, because clouds of smoke were now pouring freely through the open door, bluish-grey twirls floating peacefully, but that wasn't calming, just suffocating.

"Well, I don't know if I would have given it. I don't give people my number just like that, I'm a very private person," he stated at last, standing from his desk, walking over to a window and forcing it open. The night air outside still bore the heat of the day and the noise of the street was quite loud all the sudden, but the view looked like a welcomed escape.

At the other end of the line, the Bulgarian let out a low chuckle. "Or maybe you just like to play mysterious… don't you, Alin?"

Asshole. He thinks he knows me so well. He thinks he knows _everything_.

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't… who knows?" the rifleman replied, making his tone as teasing as possible. "What's it to you? I thought you just wanted a fling? Or should I say 'a one course meal', seeing how you're a cook and all?"

"You're right, that was my intention, a quick snack," the other confirmed. "But when one wants fast food but instead accidentally stumbles onto haute-cuisine, one's appetite can hardly be satisfied by only a mouthful."

Oh. What poetry… absolutely mind-blowing. "Wow, that's out there…" Alin observed, rolling his eyes before leaning over the sill and peering down at the traffic. "But ultimately the underlying idea is the same – you were looking for a 'meal', liked what you got and now you want a second helping. Am I right?"

There was a pause at the other end of the line – Borisov probably thinking of a smart comeback to sugarcoat the plain fact that he was only after a good fuck. And for a man who didn't even own a bed, he'd fucking have to think hard.

"Look, Alin, I…" Tsvetan paused again, clearing his throat. "Before I say anything else, I'd like to know if you're single."

Aaahhhh, here we go on the relationship questions…Fuck. That. A. Million. Times…. "Why, do I look married to you?"

Borisov laughed. "No, you certainly don't look _married_ to me. But maybe you have a boyfriend?"

"No."

Why was it so easy to spill out this lie, the strawberry blond wondered. Did he not think of Gilbert as his boyfriend? No, he did not think _period_, not when it came to doing his job. And Gil understood, because he would have done the same, for the same reasons. Staring blankly at the colorful street lights, he fleetingly asked himself whether he and Gil would ever manage to patch themselves up and live like normal people, free from the evil ghosts of their pasts.

"Oh, good. Because I was thinking… that I'd like to know more about you. Hell, I told you what I do for a living, even showed you my workplace, but you haven't told me anything. What you work, what you like, stuff like that. I was thinking we could meet up for coffee later."

Alin checked his watch – it was already 9:30 P.M. And he was wearing his uniform. Oh yes, he knew he looked hot in black, but maybe it wasn't yet time for Borisov to see him in _this_ outfit. He'd have to go home and change. And what did one wear on a second date? He hadn't really dated anyone in the classical sense of the word (whatever the hell that was) and he was rather clueless about it. To tell the truth, he reckoned he was clueless about a lot of things…

"Well it is late already," he said, chewing on his bottom lip, for lack of better words.

"And what, it's Tuesday and you have a curfew during the week?" the Bulgarian instantly retorted, playfully. "Do you still live with your Mom?"

Alin grit his teeth at the mention of _that_, it certainly looked like this man triggered him in all sorts of bad ways. Of course, objectively speaking, he'd just made an innocent, unsuspecting joke and had involuntarily, unknowingly hit a very sore spot. But in fact it didn't matter and the rifleman just gripped the dusty bottom frame of the window and squeezed until his knuckles went white, struggling to breathe through the sudden hollowness in his chest.

"No, I don't 'still live with my Mom'," he murmured quietly. "Thing is I'm still at work, so… maybe in two hours?"

Borisov feigned a gasp."Two hours? You'd have me wait that long?"

"Hey, take it or leave it, Big Chef," the Romanian said, a bit sternly. Like hell he was going to make things easy for the bastard.

"Okay…"

* * *

Sighing, Alin closed the door shut with his foot and dropped his keys on the table. It had been a rather long day and all he would have wanted was to just plop down in front of the TV and have a bite, not go on some stupid date. But he couldn't let go of Borisov, now that he'd gotten the man hooked. The blond kicked off his shoes and peered into the living room, where Gilbert was already glued to the computer, playing a video game.

"Hey, Schatz!" the albino greeted, without taking his eyes off the screen. "I ordered a pizza earlier, there's some left for you in the kitchen."

The Romanian walked in the indicated direction and with automatic gestures flipped the box open and grabbed a large, prosciutto covered chunk. His mood improved somewhat as he munched on it.

"Hey, Gil," he asked, marching into the living room, pizza in hand. "What the fuck does one wear on a second date?"

The Prussian pursed his mouth and let out a fart-like sound. "I don't know, do I? How the fuck is the second date any different from the other dates? And why the fuck are you asking _me_ complicated stuff like that? Francis would be the one into formal bullshit, I'm just a 'flow naturally' kind of guy."

Alin rolled his eyes. "Well I don't know, Gil," he whined with his mouth full. "You're the experienced one, remember? So some help here, please, I can't fuck this up!"

The albino scowled and blinked in irritation, but he did pause the game and typed something on a Google window. "Oh, here it is: _'Your first date was all sunshine and unicorns. You like the guy and he seems to like you too. You're flirting and texting and looking forward to date number two. But the second date calls it all: It's do or die for your future together. Here's how to get to date number three…' _Ah fuck, that's not… it doesn't say anything about clothes…"

He typed some more, while his boyfriend plopped down on the sofa, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, this might help! Suggestions: 'Balance sweet and tough'. Huh, I like that, you're sweet," Gilbert chuckled. "Or 'Dress up your jeans'. I guess that works just fine – like jeans and a dress shirt? Huh. And there's also… 'Say yes to lace'?"

"Oh, what the fuck, Gil?!" Alin cried, but the other just burst into laughter.

"Guess that's a definite '_Fuck no_ to lace', then," the Prussian said. "Come here, you." Alin stood reluctantly and still frowning a bit, but his boyfriend pulled him down in his lap, wrapping his arms around the younger's lanky frame. "You're so fucking cute, you know that, right? And it doesn't matter what you're wearing, you're my beautiful boy. It's going to be alright, you'll pull this off, just like you always do."

The strawberry blond only offered him a bitter smile in return.

"Hey, we've got all the bastards in the palm of our hand, okay? Because we're just awesome like that, don't forget." Gilbert craned his neck up and placed a gentle, affectionate peck on his lips.

* * *

Tsvetan looked out the window of the small coffee shop, pondering on the earlier conversation. He always liked to pick a table near the window if possible, from where he could just observe things, and observing other people had always been fascinating. Now he'd done the same out of habit – and it was a pleasant, quiet little corner too – but for now he cared not of other people, he only wanted to observe Alin.

He didn't know what to make of the phone talk – the Romanian was still rather teasing, but he could pick something cold and distant in the other's mood, something that didn't quite reach the words he was saying, but it was still there. Well, the truth was that he had a bit of a short temper, although he managed to keep it in check most of the times, and being punched had just sparked his anger and made him behave badly. Maybe a bit _too_ rough. And still Alin had agreed to see him again - now that was a dilemma, was it because he had actually enjoyed the rough treatment or because he just liked Tsvetan enough to want to give him a second chance to prove he wasn't a total ass? This was certainly a riddle worth cracking.

A taxi pulled over on the other side of the street and there he was, barely five minutes late. So most likely he didn't own a car, the Bulgarian mentally noted. He took his time observing Alin – he was wearing the same pair of black jeans matched with black converses, but this time he'd topped them with a simple white shirt. White, an interesting choice. Tsvetan rolled his sleeves up a bit to make his full-black outfit look more easy-going for a change.

"Hey."

His date sat down slowly on the chair in front of him, a light smile on his pale, childish face. The light colored strands were a tad ruffled and falling loosely over his forehead, so Tsvetan reached out and tucked them behind the young man's ear a bit. He couldn't help noticing the barely restrained reflex of the other as his hand moved towards his face, now that was interesting too. Was it because he'd been in a lot of fights? He also got a better look at the two piercings in Alin's ear – the ruby and the silver lightning bolt – Tsvetan thought they were both symbols of violence. Or was he wrong?

"Do you like them?"

Tsvetan ran his thumb lightly over the soft earlobe, briefly touching the two jewels, while his gaze shifted to their owner's gorgeous dark red eyes. "Yeah, they look good on you. But I was wondering what they mean."

A waitress sauntered over to their table and Alin asked for a simple, black coffee. He'd been willing to bet the strawberry blond would have cream and sugar… No sweet tooth, then? Interesting. He ordered the same.

"Well, I picked the gem because red is my favorite color. The lightning bolt is just something I liked and… I don't know, it looks cool," the Romanian explained with a shrug. "What does your tattoo mean? The one with the rose with the long strain going down your arm."

"It's related to my name – Tsvetan. It means 'flower' or 'blossom' in Bulgarian and was something my mother chose." He'd rather not have brought his mother up right now, but figured that giving up something that personal was bound to help earn at least a bit of Alin's trust."Do you like roses?"

The rifleman shifted, his pale, slender fingers wrapping themselves lightly around the steaming cup. "I usually do, yes. Are you a thorny rose, though?"

Well, a tricky question, the Bulgarian thought. Didn't all roses have thorns? His eyes fell on the blond's broken nose – it wasn't that bad but hadn't healed yet either. Tsvetan chewed on his lip, blinking – if at least he hadn't left any marks… "It depends," he said with a vague smirk. "Does your name mean anything in Romanian?"

Alin stopped in mid-sip, looking a bit surprised at the question. "Yes. Alin means 'I soothe'," he answered nevertheless, licking his lips discreetly and glancing curiously at the dark-haired young man in front of him, whose eyebrow shot up a bit as he pondered.

"And do you? Soothe, I mean?"

"It depends."

Tsvetan leaned forward over the small table and reached out for the strawberry blond's free hand, covering lightly with his own and searching his eyes. "Look, Alin, I would like to apologize for, well… But of course, I won't apologize if by any chance you enjoyed it," he stated openly. There was no other way to find out for sure and get to the bottom of things fast.

"Enjoyed?" The Romanian looked uncertain and about to pull his hand away, yet he didn't. It was as if the nervous impulse had reached his limb, only to be halted in the very last moment. "No, I… I'm not into pain at all, actually."

Well, then. "You could have asked me to stop, if it was that bad," the green-eyed young man said, a bit too quickly, although there had been no accusation in the other's words, but he could feel that reluctance, that coldness again. He'd gotten his answer and it wasn't that unexpected either, but still… Alin had backhanded him first, admittedly after being bitten and-… oh well, he wouldn't start an argument over this.

"And what, you would have? Stopped?"

The words, barely murmured in a low voice, cut through Tsvetan like a blade. Alin wasn't looking at him and there hadn't been any sarcasm or anything, just plain… surprise? "Do you think I wouldn't have stopped if you'd asked?!" he snapped regardless, barely keeping his tone from sounding aggressive.

The Romanian pulled back defensively and leaned in his chair, continuing to stare down in his lap. His hand had slipped from Tsvetan's without the other noticing and now rubbed the back of his neck slowly, a bit awkwardly. "I don't… I was drunk and I was scared and I-I don't know."

The Bulgarian's face fell and a cold shudder suddenly ran down his spine along with the realization that most likely, at some point, something really bad must have happened to the young man in front of him. Despite whatever deceiving appearances, he _really was_ vulnerable and fragile, he didn't want pain but maybe involuntarily sought to be abused? It was a pattern of suffering, of trauma that he himself had been familiar with for quite a while, until he'd realized that he really needed to stop hurting himself over and over again. And probably Alin wasn't all that experienced either and he'd…. oh fuck, he'd really screwed up badly. Tsvetan knew he wasn't exactly the gentle type, but if he wanted to keep Alin around, he would have to be from now on. Very gentle.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I really am, I should have realized… I guess I was an asshole."

* * *

Alin bit his lip, barely fighting back a smirk although his eyes were almost in tears – he had actually succeeded in taking Borisov on a little guilt trip. At first he'd seriously doubted it was possible, but then it had surprisingly turned out that the man had a soft spot there somewhere, underneath the countless layers of filth. It could have almost been deceiving, if the image of the little Italian had not lingered in the back of his mind, as a constant reminder of who this man really was.

"You look a bit tired," Tsvetan observed, his tone much softer now. "Hard day at work?"

The Romanian nodded slowly, reaching for his cup again.

"So what do you do for a living?"

"Several things for now. I, um… have one year left before getting my degree in universal literature, so in my free time I tutor high-school kids and I also work at a gas station. I figure once I get my degree it will get easier… I mean I'll get to teach and stuff," the strawberry blond explained.

Borisov smiled lightly, nodding. "Wow, that's nice. I can picture you teaching. Girls will love you, for sure," he laughed a bit and the Romanian did too, picturing what the dark-haired young man's expression would have been if he'd known what his job really was. Could he have even imagined sweet, vulnerable, _soothing _little Alin with a police shotgun in hand? Probably not.

"Actually, I went to university too a while ago, but never graduated," he went on. "Things became really tough when my mother died – three years ago - so I had to get this job and give up on school." Alin noticed he twitched a bit (almost inconspicuously) when saying the last part and wondered why.

"I'm sorry. What did you study?"

"Chemistry. I wanted to be a teacher too."

Oh fuck. He would have been some teacher, the rifleman was willing to bet. At least some innocent kids somewhere had been lucky that Borisov had made such a radical change of career paths. Not to mention, chemistry had been his most dreaded subject in school and now that he thought of it, it probably suited the Bulgarian. Eww.

"You know, my mother thought we'd be better off if we came here," the green-eyed young man said unexpectedly, his expression unreadable."That this country would offer so many opportunities for us… Instead, it only got her killed."

Alin flinched, genuinely taken by surprise." Killed?"

The Bulgarian shifted, looking uncomfortable. "Yeah, she… she was working at a small pawn shop, not far from here actually. One day two men burst in waving their guns and she tried to push the alarm button. They gunned her down before she ever got the chance."

The rifleman scrubbed a hand over his face warily, while making a mental note to check that bit of information back at the station. "Oh, I'm-I'm so sorry to hear that…" Was that why Borisov had ended up with Georgiev and his lot? Revenge? It was a possibility. "Hey, is that why you asked if I still live with my Mom?"

The dark-haired young man managed a small smile. "Nah, just… I was just teasing you. I find it hard not to, to be honest, not to mention it seemed to work too," he said, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek.

Yeah, like hell it did! Alin barely fought back a frown – he really hoped that Borisov wasn't going to ask anything about _his_ mother, for a change and put him in that worked up state again. Not that he lacked the skill to make up things if need be, but it was somewhat troublesome to keep track of lies. It was a good thing though that the man was opening up like that –a step on the path of earning his trust – but now the strawberry blond had to figure out a way to make him spill information about his work.

"Oh, I don't know what to say about that… I mean, one way or the other you end up picking on my age – or apparent age - and this joke is getting old."

Tsvetan chewed on his bottom lip, pondering. "You're right, it is. I tell you what, if you stick around I promise to be gentle with you, but the meat cleaver thing was way too good, so I think I'll keep scaring you a bit every now and then, you know, just to keep up the right level of adrenaline," he chuckled.

"As if you could scare me," Alin replied, his eyebrow shooting up challengingly.

The Bulgarian's eyes trailed from his face down to his body thoughtfully and the rifleman realized he was being underestimated again. The observation annoyed him instantly, but then again, it was obviously a good thing. Tsvetan placed a few bills under the ashtray on the table and stood up, holding out his hand.

"Let's get out of here."

_**To be continued **_


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 5**

A/N – I know I should be working on my other stories, but… But. For some reason I feel compelled to write this instead. Yep.

* * *

"Where are you taking me?"

Tsvetan grinned – it was probably a very bad idea, but despite everything the little Romanian had still thought it was wise to challenge him. Hell, he wasn't the man to back down from a challenge and he had promised to scare Alin some more, although he'd decided to be gentle all the way. Yeah, something like that.

They were outside the coffee shop on the sidewalk and the blond looked uncertain as the green-eyed man showed him to his black SUV. Only then it occurred to him that the car looked much too expensive for a cook who'd dropped out of school for lack of money, but figured he could always say he'd borrowed it from his boss. One could only hope such an explanation would hold, though.

"I believe you said I cannot scare you," the Bulgarian said. "I'll take you up on that – if you're not afraid, that is… Aaaand I'll have to blindfold you until we get there."

Alin's gaze trailed from his face to the car, quizzical. "It's not a haunted place or anything, I hope?" he asked, rather humorless. He gave the dark-haired young man a once-over, chewing on his bottom lip. "Okay… "

"What? I didn't hear you," Tsvetan teased. "Come again?"

"I said okay… I guess. This had better not be something stupid."

The Bulgarian walked behind him and took a dark silk scarf out of his pocket. It was an item that came in handy sometimes – like now. "Oh, I don't know. You're agreeing to this at your own peril," he said, in a bit of a sing-song voice.

He tied it over the blond's eyes, letting his fingers wander a bit down the back of his neck after tying the knot securely. He then took the other's smaller hand, and guided him gently to the car and into the passenger seat, even carefully adjusting his seatbelt on. Funny enough, Alin didn't ask anything about the car… but maybe he was too scared already? Heh.

"Cat got your tongue?" Tsvetan held the wheel with one hand as he drove away, resting the other onto the Romanian's thigh.

* * *

Alin took a deep breath, trying to loosen up some of the tension in his body. He was safe, the rifleman told himself, whatever the fuck Borisov had planned, it couldn't have been something he couldn't deal with. He reckoned that his surprise advantage must have had only increased after their talk over coffee – now the Bulgarian was convinced of him being vulnerable and helpless. All he had to do was to keep the pretense but well, it was a bit hard to constantly keep his defense instincts from kicking in. As he struggled to keep his mind from panicking at the lack of sight, the strawberry blond suddenly realized he'd made a huge mistake – not asking Borisov anything about the car. He knew the Bulgarian's car because he'd seen before – on the day of the attack – but the innocent student character supposedly did not and besides, the man had told him he worked as a cook. Fuck!

"I was thinking you have a pretty fancy car, _Big Chef_," he said, allowing his voice to falter a bit. "Did you steal it?"

Oops, he hadn't meant to say that, precisely because it could have been true – Georgiev did use stolen cars a lot – but well, it was meant as a joke.

A chuckle. "Maybe… who knows… Do you like it?"

"Yeah… it has that new car smell and the leather is damn fine," the younger observed, his hand blindly trailing over the side of the seat. "Say, it's that your plan on how to scare me – get me in a stolen car and have the police chase us?" he asked rather warily, fidgeting a bit under the seatbelt. 'Because that really wouldn't be funny…"

The Bulgarian laughed. "Would that scare you, my little pumpkin? I'd rather enjoy a decent car chase, with sirens and all, you know, like in the movies. But nah, I changed the plates and had it given a complete paintjob, so you have nothing to worry about. And you won't tell anyone, will you?"

"N-no…"

* * *

The rifleman focused his hearing as the tires crunched slightly on uneven, gravel covered ground. They'd driven for a while, so he figured that by now they were quite far from the center. Borisov probably had some remote location in mind, yep, somewhere 'scary'. Eventually he felt the car stop and shortly after the door on his side opened and Tsvetan took his hand, guiding him out. The breeze was a bit stronger here, so the Romanian guessed they must have been somewhere in the open. He didn't feel concrete under his feet as they walked, only rough gravel which nearly caused him to stumble.

"Wait here."

Steps were heard moving away hurriedly and suddenly a bright light erupted from the side, causing Alin to frown even under the blindfold and his hand shot up instinctively to protect his face. But then the large spotlight was directed elsewhere, the darkness returning and allowing him to relax a bit. Not enough to prevent him from flinching slightly when a pair of strong arms wrapped themselves around his body from behind.

"Scared already?" Tsvetan chuckled, pulling down the blindfold and briefly kissing the side of his neck.

Idiot. The strawberry blond scowled, trying to wiggle free from the embrace. "What the fuck are you up to?" he grumbled when the green-eyed young man refused to let go. He looked around, they were in a large, deserted courtyard lighted only by the large spotlight which had blinded him earlier. Several barrels were aligned next to a wall – he suddenly realized that it was the back of the warehouse Elizaveta was so interested in - and a multitude of colorful cans were arranged on top of the barrels. Weird, it looked like-… could that be?

"So you are scared."

"Fuck you!"

"All in due time, my little pumpkin," Borisov nuzzled his neck again. "For now I'm not done with scaring you."

Fucker, I'm not your little pumpkin, the rifleman inwardly grumbled, continuing to frown. Just what the hell was going on? Why had the Bulgarian brought him here? Could it be possible that… he knew the truth? A cold shudder ran down his spine at the thought. The bastard had gone through his things, but there was nothing pointing towards his true job, was it? The contacts in his phone? No way, there were nothing but names which couldn't have meant anything to Borisov… and there was no way he could have seen him on the day of the attack!

"I just wanted to show you where I practice," the dark-haired young man said, resting his chin on his shoulder, relaxed and unaware that Alin was ready to elbow him in the stomach and then bring him down at the smallest sign that he knew too much.

"P-practice what?" the Romanian asked, choking a bit.

Tsvetan's left arm sneaked around his waist, gripping him better to keep him in place, while his other hand disappeared somewhere… in his back pocket? The blond's breath caught in his throat as he turned his head to the side and saw the gleaming black steel of a pistol. All color drained from his face and he fought to steady his breathing as the muzzle was teasingly dragged down his side, over the thin fabric of his shirt.

"Standard 92FS Beretta," the green-eyed young man explained calmly, as if he were talking about the weather. "A very good, stable gun. Do you like it?"

"I-I think…"

"I think you should try to breathe now, Alin," the Bulgarian said, obviously amused. "Come on, pick one," he added, pointing the gun at the rows of cans.

Fucking asshole! You fucking bastard, I'll put at least one bullet hole in you for that! Alin took a deep breath and buried his face in his hands as the tension subsided a bit - the fucker didn't know anything, he probably just wanted to scare him. But then, wasn't he giving away too much? The stolen car and now the gun? He looked up at last and chose a small red can placed in the middle of a triangle.

"That one."

Tsvetan snorted as he took aim and pulled the trigger, chin still propped on the blond's shoulder. The red can flew off, causing the triangle to collapse with a startling noise. Then he picked another row and took the cans down one by one, about a dozen, never missing once.

"Would you like to give it a try?" he asked, pulling the safety on the gun and laughed softly as Alin shook his head and tried to push away the hand still holding his waist into a tight grip. "Come on, there's nothing to be afraid of… it won't bite you," the green-eyed young man teased, craning his neck forward and biting the side of Alin's ear.

The rifleman resisted the impulse to stomp his foot in annoyance because he had no choice but to play stupid and clumsy as Borisov grabbed his right hand and closed his fingers around the Beretta. "So, Tsvetan… "he mumbled, trying to distract the Bulgarian and make sure the other didn't notice anything suspicious, like the fact that he accidentally pulled the safety back without waiting to be told how to, "are you sure you're a cook?"

"I was a full-time cook when I was first hired, but now I only cook part-time, like you said, I'm a _chef_. But I also work as a guard, here at my boss' warehouse. That's why I have a gun. Anyway, this is slightly more fun than being in the kitchen. Did you just pull the safety?"

Oh, fuck me. He noticed. "Yeah… It doesn't fire if you don't, right? Were you trying to make fun of me right now?"

Tsvetan's eyebrow shot up, quizzical. "Maybe… but it looks like I failed. How did you know how to do that?"

"Oh I don't know, maybe I saw in action movies, or maybe I too have a side job – as a hired killer," Alin replied seriously, chewing on his bottom lip. He pointed the gun to one row of cans and pulled the trigger awkwardly, hitting the barrel underneath instead. "Ah, shit!" he tsked, disappointed and pouting. Tsvetan buried his nose in the back of his neck, laughing harder and harder as the blond fired a couple of times more, missing worse and worse.

"I fucking like you a lot, Alin. Why do I like you so much?"

Tsvetan replaced the gun in his back pocket and took his hand in a firm grip, pulling him towards the house. Alin began to tense up again, rather doubting his earlier conclusion. What the hell was Borisov thinking, taking him inside? It was certainly weird. The Bulgarian fished out some keys and unlocked the warehouse back door, then switched on the light.

"Where are we going?"

The green-eyed young man shrugged, sighing. "Well, I was under the impression that earlier you said you wanted to fuck me," he said casually, leading the way through several racks and shelves filled with average sized cardboard boxes. Alin noticed they were inscribed with various names, and on the ones they passed up close he caught sight of the name 'La Bella V'.

"I may have," the blond answered cautiously. "But you seem to pick the weirdest places. " His fingers trailed onto the side of a box, stumbling onto a delivery note stapled onto it – signed 'LV'. "These don't look particularly comfortable."

Borisov tsked, grinning, and made him back against a pillar, trapping him between his hands. "Picky, aren't you? But I suppose one as dainty as you has the right…" He leaned in and tilted his head, brushing his lower lip over Alin's teasingly before kissing him fully, hungrily. Then he pulled back and gave the blond a questioning look. "I wonder if you're really that scared or shy on a regular basis, or something happened with me… you were certainly feistier the first time we met."

"Why do you think I'm shy? Or scared?" The Romanian pushed him unexpectedly and walked away, hips swaying a bit as he threw a challenging glance over his shoulder.

The dark-haired young man followed him closely along the racks, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Well, maybe it's just that I don't really get you. Everyone I've dated always asked a lot of questions, they wanted to know everything about me. But you're barely asking anything… Not even when I told you the car was stolen. It's rather weird. Don't you want to know stuff about me?"

"I don't know, I guess I'm used to people who just blurt out everything about themselves without being asked, even stuff I really don't want to know," the rifleman said smiling." And besides, if there was something you wanted to hide from me, you could do it anyway, couldn't you? It's called _lying_. I mean if you really were a bad guy, you wouldn't just tell me, right? So I'd rather rely on indirect observations… And come on, you didn't steal the fucking car," he added, biting his bottom lip.

Borisov didn't answer, just took his hand again and led him to a staircase going to the upper floor.

* * *

He hoped Alin would be pleased that this time he'd brought him where he really lived. The apartment he'd fixed on half of the upper floor of the warehouse was admittedly somewhat of an unusual place to live, but he liked the space, especially the high ceiling and the large windows. Not to mention, it was a good place to monitor the activity from here, aside from the alarm system and surveillance. The rest of the upper floor was occupied by his office, but that was a restricted area as far as his flings were concerned. Tsvetan smirked, unable to think that it was a great place to bring people at night. Of course, he was quite private and selective and Alin was only the second person he'd brought back here, and only because he was trusting and harmless enough.

The blond looked around the large living-room decorated minimally, his hands awkwardly stuck in his pockets. "Wow, you've got all this space, like, to yourself?" he asked surprised, walking up to a window and glancing outside.

"Yeah, all mine," the Bulgarian confirmed. The other turned around slowly, blinking rather puzzled and then… fuck. _This_ didn't add up either. The car and now the fancy place – it must have looked suspicious, even if Alin still wasn't openly asking any questions. Darn, sooner or later he'd have to explain, somehow. Not that he gave a lot of explanations on a regular basis, but now it was different. Alin was different than all the others.

"Lucky you," he said. "I mean my place is nowhere near this big and I have three roommates… who really like to party and make a mess and… I guess it sucks sometimes." He paused, chewing on his lip and fidgeting, as if he were uncomfortable ranting like that but still felt compelled to do it. "I really hate having to clean up after them all the time…"

Tsvetan walked up to the Romanian and wrapped his arms around him. "I bet you look sexy… when you're cleaning."

"What?" the blond scowled when his nose was pecked and the green-eyed young man picked him up bridal style, carrying him straight into the bedroom.

"See? I do own a bed after all," the Bulgarian stated, lowering Alin on top of the soft duvet and climbing on top of him. "Comfy?" he asked with a grin, pinning his lover down by the wrists and pressing his lips on his hotly. His thumb brushed over the blond's lower lip and opened his mouth, his tongue skillfully delving inside, coaxing the other to play and intent on taking it slowly this time. He could faintly taste the black, bitter coffee – did he really not like sugar? Or cream? Alin and cream… uh… well, that would be some dessert.

At length Tsvetan pulled away, thoughtfully examining the Romanian's slightly swollen lower lip with an ever widening smirk. "Hmm… what to do with you? I think I'll handcuff you to the bed," he stated matter-of-factly, reaching for the drawer of the nightstand.

"Wha-? No! Please, don't!" Alin begged faintly, squirming and wide-eyed all the sudden.

"'Please'?" the dark-haired young man chuckled, but drew his hand back from the unopened drawer. Be gentle, he reminded himself. "Okay but then, how will I know you'll hold still? Can I trust you'll behave and there'll be no kicking and punching this time?"

The strawberry blond nodded and took a deep breath as his other wrist was released. "Tsvetan… kiss me," he asked, reaching up and caressing his cheek with the tips of his fingers.

He didn't think he'd heard Alin say his name before – nope, he'd only called him 'Big Chef' until now – and it sounded incredibly soft, without the relative harshness of the Anglo-Saxon accent he'd gotten so used to, just… _soothing_. He gave in momentarily, though mostly teasing and sloppy and drinking in his lover's breath - already a bit labored - before he pulled back and glanced deeply into those gorgeous red orbs, wide with a mixture of anticipation and worry.

"Look, Alin, I just want you to trust me, okay? There will be no pain tonight, nothing will hurt, I promise. Just let me make it up to you," he said gently, accompanying his statement with another soft peck on the tip of his nose.

The younger still seemed to have some trouble trying to relax completely, but nodded slowly. "Okay…"

The green-eyed young man's fingers began unbuttoning the white shirt carefully, while his mouth left a trail of butterfly kisses along Alin's jaw line, then down on his exposed neck. Tsvetan's mouth covered every patch of skin revealed as the light fabric gave way – it was so soft and delicious and he couldn't help giving it a few licks and nip at it, enjoying the slightly salty taste. Just like a well-seasoned meal.

Pausing briefly, he reached back and bent the blond's knees up, blindly fumbling with the laces of his converses and ridding him of the troublesome shoes. The jeans, socks and boxers went off next, while the Bulgarian resumed his slow ministrations to the other's torso. He smiled against his lover's skin when the other's slender legs, now bare, wrapped around his waist and his hips rose to meet and grind against his.

Tsvetan paused again briefly when the white shirt was fully undone and assessed the results of his 'work'. A satisfied grin crept on his face upon observing the Romanian, who was already panting, with his eyes closed and cheeks deliciously flushed, his arousal now beyond doubt. "Mmmm… I'm definitely going to eat you up this time," he chuckled, scooting down the bed and trying his teeth a bit into the inside of his lover's thigh.

Usually Georgiev's chief of operations was on the receiving end of such treatment, but he figured he could make an exception for little Alin – it would pay off more than enough if the student agreed to date him from now on, at least for a while until he was going to have his fill of this fine young man. A low, sensuous moan escaped the younger's lips as the green-eyed young man's tongue teased him playfully.

"Hah, yes… t-there!" Alin's back arched off the mattress as he moaned louder this time, throwing his head back against the pillows. His hips were lifted and nimble fingers squeezed and caressed his backside in the same time as his partner used his mouth onto his throbbing need. "A-ah n-no… this is t-too good…"

'Too good'? Now that was an interesting concept Tsvetan decided they should definitely explore –and at any rate he took it as a fine compliment in respect of his exquisite bedding skills. He continued to lick and suck, pleased and encouraged by his lover's increasing moans and the delicate, slender fingers which had found purchase in his hair and the back of his neck, and eventually drank down all of the blond's essence as he reached his peak, calling his name for the second time. Yep, that alone was worth it.

Green eyes still dark with lust looked up at Alin as he panted softly, catching his breath after the moment of high, as the Bulgarian rested his chin on top of the rifleman's hipbone, lazily rubbing his knee with one hand. He'd have to take care of his own burning need a bit later on his own, but for now he would not ask for gratification. Still smirking, he slid up his lover's body, pulling the covers over both of them.

"Rest now, baby."

* * *

Fucking hell, she was really, really late. She'd slept in, for the first time in a very long while, and the Hungarian suspected that the half-bottle of palinka she'd had while going through the files she'd taken at home the previous night might have had something to do with it. Elizaveta threw a wide glance around the open-space, failing to see the person she was looking for. Vasile wasn't there and he wasn't outside in the parking lot – he had better not taken the day off without announcing or something, the little bastard! They needed to return to the warehouse – preferably without the damned police car – and find out more. Maybe they'd be lucky and find it unguarded. Or if it was, they could ask it the space was for sale or available to rent.

The sudden ringing of her cell phone pulled the detective from her musings, nearly causing her to drop the files in her grasp as she frantically searched for the troublesome item in the dark depths of her shoulder bag. Snapping it open with a grunt as she saw an unknown number, she held it awkwardly in the space between her shoulder and ear.

"Detective Héderváry," Elizaveta said, struggling to get a better grip on the files and to stop the papers from inside to slip and scatter all over the floor as she walked towards her office.

"Good morning, detective," said a familiar, good-humored voice at the other end of the line, making her eye twitch in annoyance.

"Where the fuck are you?!" the Hungarian hissed. "We need to-"

"If you were wondering what's in Georgiev's warehouse – well, there are several piles of rather small cardboard boxes mostly inscribed with the name 'La Bella V' and on one of them I saw a delivery note signed LV. Could you please check on that? Thought it might help," Alin whispered.

The detective dropped the files in her arms on a random empty desk and gripped the phone tightly. "What the fuck-… how do you know that?! Did you go there without me?!" She drew a deep breath, trying to keep her cool. "Did Adnan authorize you to pull this kind of stupid stunts, you demented little shit?!"

Alin cleared his throat. "Yeah, he did. Listen, I need you to keep this to yourself, but… I'm kind of dating Borisov right now."

The brunette dropped onto a chair limply as her brain struggled to process the information. "Wha-…?" she breathed faintly.

"You said you didn't care how dirty this gets."

Elizaveta facepalmed. Just how _fucked_ was this? Dating?! Was that even acceptable for an undercover job, to date a suspect? And it wasn't just 'dating', because she could put two and two together – Vasile had clearly spent the night with the man. And the way he'd said it… oh fuck. It had definitely sounded like it wasn't the first time – he wouldn't have said he was dating the Bulgarian after just a one-night stand. God!

She ran a hand through her hair, trying to keep her voice low enough not to be heard by everyone around. "Alin, listen to me very carefully now. You can't do this kind of bullshit, okay? You can't date him, or fuck him, or… or whatever, it's just too dangerous, do you understand?! Obvious dangers aside, you can't risk getting emotionally involved with this man, what if… I mean, the fuck, he _is _rather good looking! What if you fall in love with him?!"

The Romanian laughed. "Sure, what's not to love? Maybe I'll even buy him a ring and pop the question. Oh wait, did you just say he's good looking? Do I sense a hint of jealousy…?"

"Detective Héderváry, please give dating advice in your own free time, some people are trying to work in here," officer Gilbert Beilschmidt stated stiffly from two desks away, while typing something with a preoccupied air.

"Asshole, mind you own business!" the Hungarian snapped, promptly throwing him a killing glare. A second later she hunched over the desk, pressing the phone to her ear. "Fine I'll check the information until you get here – which had better be this fucking century – but be advised that I think this is _beyond fucked_! I mean, what if he searches your phone and finds, for example, a detective's number?"

At the other end of the line Alin laughed again. "Don't worry, Elizaveta. I saved your number under 'Mom'."

_**To be continued **_


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER 6**

A/N – Hello everyone! I know I haven't written anything lately (basically put everything on hiatus), it's because I hit one of those periods when I'm not in the mood and I lack inspiration. I'm currently on vacation for two weeks – not much of a vacation because of some family issues, but still – so… yeah, I'll try to get something done in the meantime.

* * *

Snapping his phone shut, Alin crept out of bed and pulled his boxers on. Yeah, okay, so Borisov had some skills in that department. So what? It was amazing to consider to what extent people could be influenced by chemical reactions and well, the man had studied _chemistry_ after all. Sighing, he chewed his lip as he walked towards the bathroom – the door was cracked open and movement was heard inside. The Bulgarian must have heard him talking on the phone, although surely not _what_ he had been talking and he wasn't going to make it a secret, better not give the man any reason to be suspicious.

"Hey!" Tsvetan greeted with a crooked smile, as he was putting some toothpaste on his brush. "You sure aren't an early riser, are you?"

Look who was talking. "Yeah, I just saw how late it is," Alin admitted sheepishly. "Guess I'll skip classes today and well… first thing I had to call my Mom and let her know I won't be coming to see her today."

The Bulgarian nodded slowly, a faint smile still lingering on his lips as he handed the blond a spare toothbrush, then it disappeared. "About that," he began cautiously, eyeing the mirror, "maybe it's not my business, but… what's with your Mom?"

The question caused a painful pang to shoot through the rifleman's stomach all the sudden and his hand nearly flew to his midsection, before he reached up and twisted it nervously in his hair. Had he been that obvious, let so much out? But then, Borisov must have studied him carefully, listened and kept in mind all the details, every word he'd said. Now that was slightly concerning, he'd have to be very careful too, not to pour in _too many_ lies. Not that spilling too much of the truth was an option either.

"Um… with my Mom… it's complicated. I mean, I don't think you'd understand," he offered briefly, before beginning to brush his teeth.

"Why do you think that? It's about the whole 'coming out' thing? Did she say she'd disown you or something?" Tsvetan was sounding rather playful, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Alin could tell that the other was quite serious about figuring him out, but he really wished they didn't have to talk about this. Not about this and certainly not with him.

He sighed and placed the toothbrush slowly back in its place. "No, it's not like that. Besides, I've no reason to 'come out', I'm not gay."

"No?" the dark-haired young man's eyes were wide with sudden amusement, but he did not comment on it.

"Here, let me do it," the younger said, as Borisov picked up his shaving utensils, with a quizzical look. He held out his hand, with a light smile. "Last night you asked me to trust you and I did. Do you not trust me too?"

Tsvetan shrugged sheepishly. "Of course I do and you're a very sweet kid, but after seeing you handle that gun, rather clumsily if I may say so…"

"Oh, thanks for the vote of confidence," the Romanian rolled his eyes, pulling a sour face which faded when he was finally given the shaving foam tube and the razor. He placed the razor back down by the sink and squeezed some foam into his hand, then began spreading it onto the green-eyed young man's face with light fingers. "I was just saying you wouldn't understand because you lost your mother and well, you seemed to have loved her a lot too," he went on, eyes trained on his own movements and not meeting the other's. "So you'd only think that I should be grateful to still have mine."

* * *

Tsvetan chewed on his lip, eyes trained to a blank point onto the white tiles, past the strawberry blond's bare shoulder. There was something ominously neutral about the words he'd just heard, as if any trace of feeling was carefully kept out of them. Alin had a dark secret, something bad had happened to him - just as he'd intuited back at the café – and he wanted to know (why though he could not quite say at this point) what it was.

"I take it you don't have such a good relationship with your mother, then," he said at last, eyes discreetly searching Alin's features. His face had an unnatural pallor under the neon light, appearing almost eerie and accentuating the light shadows under his eyes. He looked troubled by the mere thought, haunted even.

The Romanian drew an almost inconspicuous breath before grabbing the razor and removing its plastic protection cap. "My mother is suffering from a rather severe personality disorder. She has been since forever, but I only discovered it relatively recently. Anyway, it's not… well not like a 'full-fledged' mental illness, but it's pretty bad. And incurable."

"What kind of personality disorder? How does it manifest?" the dark-haired young man asked as his head was tilted slightly and the blade slid carefully down the side of his cheek.

Alin blinked a couple of times, he hadn't expected the question. The red orbs were trained on the razor's movements intently as he inhaled sharply, looking as if he struggled between not wanting to answer and needing to. He blinked again and only now Tsvetan realized that he was trying to hold back his tears. Yet when he spoke, his voice was perfectly calm and controlled. Frighteningly so.

"It's called malignant narcissism or NPD. I know the name sounds somewhat ridiculous, but it's a very real thing unfortunately…. Um, about how it manifests, it's pretty simple – patients with NPD cannot and will not accept that they are less than the epitome of perfection and that the world does not revolve around their will." The blond paused briefly and a grimace twisted his lips. "Since they are preoccupied to the point of obsession by the way in which they are perceived by strangers and society, they will project this image of perfection onto the outside world, so that everyone who doesn't know them closely actually thinks they are perfectly wonderful people. But apparently there is no point in keeping the pretense around their family and close ones, which they do not view as separate individuals, but mere extensions of their own self. The slightest indication that they receive towards this not actually being the case leads to extremely violent outbursts which are quite unpredictable. However, the abuse is often subtle and at all times carefully concealed, such that the abused spouse and/or children do not have any credibility with others and their reputation remains intact. That's how the official studies describe it and I think it pretty much sums it up, yeah…"

'Thank you, Doctor,' the Bulgarian nearly said, but it really wasn't the right moment to make a joke. The blond was probably only doing what he could to preserve his dignity by adopting this almost scientific tone, like reading from a psychology book. His words had been neat and overly formal, blatantly void of emotion, but still barely containing the horror concealed beyond them. At any rate, his suspicions were confirmed – Alin had been abused, but he'd been sure it had been a stepfather, or most likely a very rough lover inflicting it. No wonder he hadn't thought Tsvetan would stop hurting him if he'd asked. But he could have never imagined it had been his _mother_, for fuck's sake. Damn it! He shouldn't have pressed for an answer – now he'd probably made the student really uncomfortable, talking about that.

"I-I'm sorry," he stuttered awkwardly. "I really shouldn't have insisted, guess I'm just stupid like that sometimes and stick my nose where it doesn't belong. I never wanted to make you feel bad."

Alin put the razor down and grabbed a towel, shaking his head dismissively. "No, it's okay. I mean, people ask sometimes – my friends and all – but then… they don't really understand anyway, because one cannot understand what one has not personally experienced. That's how it goes, but it's okay. I'm used to it," he replied, dabbing at the vague traces of foam left on the other's face. "And you couldn't have known it was like that…"

* * *

He was suddenly very tired, as if the night's sleep hadn't amounted to anything, all energy drained from his body. It had been a mistake, a mistake – he shouldn't have told Borisov! It wasn't as if it was helping in any way, to talk about it and the description he'd used, well, it was irrelevant. No way his own personal hell could be contained in just a few phrases, ever. But the need to say it out loud was there, always, always creeping somewhere in the back of his mind, looking for an opportunity to express itself and there, now it had slipped again.

But then arms went around his waist, pulling him close to the other man's body, bringing him back from those dark thoughts. The Bulgarian buried his nose in the crook of his neck, wet and a bit cold, nearly making him wince. Maybe this stupid confession had helped after all – to make Borisov trust him even more. Maybe he had a taste for knowing people's dark secrets – their vulnerable points - it must have fed his sense of being an all-knowing smartass or something. How disturbing.

"Stay with me today," Tsvetan whispered teasingly in his ear, tucking a stray strand behind it and nipping a bit at the pierced lobe.

Alin shook his head, barely fighting back a weary frown. "Can't, I've got some stuff to do at home before work. Like I said, I'm a very busy guy."

"Well then, can't let you go smelling like this, now can we?" the green-eyed young man said playfully, sniffing a bit and scrunching his nose.

"Smelling like _what_?"

Only a chuckle came in reply and before Alin could protest further, he was promptly pulled in the shower.

* * *

The brunette took a moment to clear her thoughts after the conversation was over, hunched over the desk with her head cradled in her hands and lightly rubbing her temples. Just _what the actual hell_ was going on? Okay, okay, so she'd thought right off the bat that there was something shady about Alin Vasile, fact now fully confirmed by his _unorthodox_ methods of obtaining information – was this even-…? Well, she didn't even have a word to describe how this was. But what shocked her more was Adnan's approach to things –because it was undoubtedly the Chief Inspector's approach to have things this way, the rifleman was just doing the dirty work. Hell! At any rate, she thought she'd better ignore the unsettling feeling in her stomach and focus on the information she'd just received - LV and 'La Bella V', whatever the hell that meant.

The Hungarian stood up at last, collecting the pile of files in her arms carefully as she straightened up and blew a loose strand away from her face. She started towards her office, passing by a still muttering Gilbert Beilschmidt, and her gaze suddenly fell onto her former partner, who was now sat at his desk, in his own office, going through some papers.

At first, Elizaveta thought of knocking into the doorframe – since the door was open – but realized her hands were occupied. Anyway, if Roderich had left the door open if could only mean he was available, right? So she figured now was as good a time as any to have a word with him. In fact, it was rather overdue. She cleared her throat softly, clutching her papers as she took a step forward into the room, enough to make the Austrian lift his gaze from his and look up at her questioningly, without any word of greeting.

"Hello, Roderich," she said, her voice stranded with tension. "I was wondering if you have a minute?"

"For what?"

The hostility was obvious behind those two words and the brunette's jaw clenched in irritation – why, just why was he being such a bastard? There, only a few feet away sat the man she'd loved with all her heart (and maybe, just maybe she still did), suddenly transformed into someone else, into this begrudging stranger she didn't know and understand.

"I would like you to explain this sudden wave of hostility you've been directing towards me lately. The report you filed-"

"The report I filed is an accurate presentation of the facts," Edelstein said stiffly, standing from his desk and picking up a folder, which he then stuffed on a meticulously arranged shelf. "However, I understood that you would still not take responsibility for what happened."

She blinked, fingers gripping at the edges of her files until she actually felt the sharp sting of a paper cut." Take responsibility for what happened?! _I_ should take responsibility for what happened?! Are you-… How can you say that?!" the Hungarian yelled, moving forward until she was practically in the other detective's face, blocking his way back to his desk. "How can you say that, when it was you who-"

"When it was you who nearly got me killed that day!" the blue-eyed man said sharply, taking a small step back as if repulsed by her proximity. "The thing is – I trusted you, Elizaveta, and you let me down!"

Right then and there, it became too much. The brunette squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head and trying to fight off the image which had been lingering on the back of her eyelids ever since that day – the horribly pale face of the man she loved as he was very nearly bleeding to death.

"_I_ let you down? After covering for all your crap because you were always rushing into things like a fool, like you did that time, and now you'd blame everything on me! How dare you? Just how dare you?! I loved you! I would have died for you!" No, no, this was a mistake, she shouldn't have said it, but the words had just spilled off her lips with a will of their own.

To her surprise, Roderich took a step forward and for a moment the Hungarian was under the impression that his features had softened somewhat. But it was just an impression.

"Have you been drinking again, Elizaveta?" His eyes were cold as he spoke, disdain seeping from his tone with every syllable. "Look at you! I don't know _what the hell_ I was thinking, giving things a chance between us, as fleeting as they were. See, I had a feeling about this all along – that you're nothing but an incompetent troublemaker!"

"Fleeting…?"

It was as if this one, tiny word made it come undone at last, destroyed the feeble balance, cut the thin cord which had kept the last shred of hope from collapsing into nothingness. Then everything happened in some sort of sick slow motion – the brunette took a step forward, as if intending to reach out, but Edelstein shoved her away – quickly, brutally even – and she lost her footing, her body slamming into the side of the desk before her knees gave out and she collapsed on the floor.

Next thing she heard were hurried footsteps and a firm voice, asking Roderich to back off in a warning tone. Her hair was hanging in her face and Elizaveta pushed it away with a shaky hand, her fingers halting in mid-movement as they encountered a painful point on the side of her head. A gentle arm cradled her side, helping her up as she buried her face in her hands, feeling horribly dizzy all the sudden.

* * *

"Hey, Liz. You okay now?"

At this point the Hungarian had made it to her own desk somehow and all her papers had been placed in front of her on a neat pile – which strongly contrasted with the surrounding mess – along with a steaming cup of fresh coffee. She lifted her gaze, meeting the genuinely concerned look of detective Jones, his baby-blue eyes watching her intently. Suddenly she was horribly embarrassed by the whole thing. She just couldn't believe that Roderich had treated her this way, in front of everyone, no less! And to suggest that she had been drinking! When had he ever seen her drink? Let alone _drunk_! And yet now he'd said it out loud, probably hoping others would hear as well, the bastard! Elizaveta uselessly wracked her brain in search for answers she knew she would not find.

"Al, do you think I'm an incompetent troublemaker?" she whispered weakly, reaching for the cup gratefully.

"Of course not, Lizzie! You're one of the best detectives. But I guess he's still shaken with what happened and all… this shit takes time, you know?"

"Thank you, Al."

Alfred gave her one last reassuring smile before disappearing out the door. Fuck Roderich! She would not waste another moment thinking about him, frankly the detective didn't understand, it was completely beyond her what the actual hell was wrong with him – aside from the very obvious fact ('fleeting', he'd said!) that whatever had been going on between the two of them had been no more than an illusion, a lie – and right now Elizaveta had better things to do than fucking care! The case, she should focus on the case, instead of brooding over the last (completely fucking wasted!) year of her life. She desperately tried to focus on the computer screen in front of her, angrily blinking the blur of tears from her eyes.

Okay, 'LV' and 'La Bella V'…

Almost half an hour later the Hungarian got her answer and the pencil she was nervously chewing on fell off her mouth in surprise. She'd stumbled upon a small Italian restaurant named 'La Bella Vita', the registered owner being a certain Lovino Vargas. _Vargas?_ Now that was particularly interesting….

_**To be continued **_

A/N- Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) is a real personality disorder and yes, unfortunately it is incurable; you can look it up on Google if you want to find out more.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER 7**

A/N – Hello my dear readers! So… yep, vacation's over, I'm back to work and hopefully will update more regularly. That being said, enjoy today's update!

* * *

With a nervous gesture, Elizaveta threw the half-eaten sandwich in the trash bin, peeking through the open door for the umpteenth time. Now that was the last thing she needed – to worry about that little shit! He'd called earlier saying he'd be down at the station around one o'clock and now it was one thirty. The bastard, he was way too confident, things just never went as smoothly as he made it look like. Sooner or later – probably sooner than later – he was going to get into serious trouble.

"Hey, Liz! You asked if we've got anything on a certain Lovino Vargas?" The blonde head with hair cropped awkwardly just below the chin and a green ribbon on the side popping in the doorframe pulled her out of her musings. "Here's the file and guess what – he was just brought in after being charged with assault in a tavern row not two hours ago! Anything else?"

The detective blinked wearily, trying to process the information as she took the file from the girl's outstretched hand. "No, thanks Lilly, that will be all…"

And then she saw Alin, looking a bit ruffled despite the usual neatness of his black uniform, heading in her direction. Gilbert reached for his hand the moment he passed by the Prussian's desk, retaining him and whispering something hurriedly. It was but brief and the strawberry blond appeared to scowl at what he'd heard, but she couldn't help noticing the familiarity of their touch, the way their fingers intertwined, almost inconspicuously. Definitely more than just friends, those two, the Hungarian realized.

Lowering her gaze, Elizaveta glanced at the hard cover of the file she was still holding, feeling suddenly reluctant to open it. "I love my job, I love my job, I love my job," she muttered under her breath, flicking over the cover and skimming through the basic info. The door closed silently while she still stared hard at the papers, taking her time to acknowledge that Vasile had plopped down on the chair in front of her desk.

"Well, well, don't you look like all kinds of hell this… afternoon," the brunette said at last, abandoning the file on the desk and bringing her hands together on top of it. "Rough night, I take it?"

Alin shrugged. "Nah, I'm fine. I've been reminded of some family issues, that's all." He leaned forward over the desk slightly, as to take a better look at her face. "What about you? Are you upset… with me?"

The Hungarian chewed on her upper lip as her fingers took awkward purchase in her hair. "It's just… there's like… a lot going on, you know what I mean? I'm having a bit of a hard time processing everything, to be honest. And on top of it all, "she paused, drawing a shaky breath,"… well, my hearing is in roughly two hours and I tried to talk to Roderich about it, but… it didn't go well. In fact, he yelled at me and said I was a drunkard in front of everyone." Damn, she really shouldn't have whined like this in front of him – it wasn't like he could help anyway, if anything it only added to her embarrassment.

"Hey, don't worry about the hearing, okay? Kirkland is not a bad guy. There has to be an internal hearing because Edelstein filed a report, but that doesn't mean he can actually prove anything. It's just a standard procedure."

"How do you know?"

The rifleman smiled wryly. "Well, Gilbert's been in trouble a couple of times… and he wasn't that innocent either."

Elizaveta nodded slowly, leaning back in her chair. What she was about to ask really wasn't any of her business, but she might as well get some insight into this peculiar situation, she reckoned.

"Speaking of officer Beilschmidt… does he know?" Green eyes settled onto the young man in front of her, curiously, half-hoping to see him troubled by the sudden question. "You know, about your particular ways of hunting down Borisov."

A smirk lit up the strawberry blond's face at this, much to her surprise. "Honestly detective, should you really be digging up stuff which would only end up shocking you further? And I thought you loathed officer Beilschmidt."

"I do loathe him, he's an asshole. You both are," the brunette said firmly, picking up the file from the desk." Right, now let me tell you what I dug up so far. _La Bella Vita_ is an Italian restaurant owned by a Mr. Lovino Vargas – most likely the mysterious 'LV' signing the delivery notes you saw back at the warehouse. Now Mr. Vargas is quite the character, apparently, and he's got a record too. Several charges of assault – one subsequently withdrawn – and of drug possession. Convicted once, did two years on a minimum security penitentiary. Oh, and he's just been brought in again after a fight."

"Oh, wow, a feisty one. Any relation to Feliciano Vargas?"

Elizaveta nodded. "Brother."

"Great. Well then, we'll go talk to him after your hearing."

The Hungarian sighed, beginning to chew on her thumbnail (darn, she'd thought that she'd been well past that nasty habit!). "Alin, we will have to be very careful. We can't ask Vargas anything about the boxes in Georgiev's warehouse, because he will tell Borisov about it and your 'friend' will wonder how come we know about them. And he will suspect you."

* * *

Elizaveta balled her sweaty hands into fists, nails digging into her palms. Five minutes left. This stupid tension was beginning to make her sick to her stomach. It was awful, awful! She grabbed a napkin and wiped her palms hastily, then ran her hands through her hair, smoothing it the best she could before pulling it back into a tight ponytail.

"Liz? It's time. Mr. Kirkland will see you now," Lilly announced.

The brunette stood up stiffly and smoothed the lapels and sides of her jacket, then walked out the door with her back straight. The dreaded office which had 'Internal affairs' written in embossed letters onto the matte glass door was at the end of the hallway and Elizaveta felt several pairs of eyes watching her curiously as she headed in that direction. Adnan's door was open as she passed by it, but the Chief Inspector was reading his newspaper surrounded by thick clouds of smoke and didn't pay her any attention. She wondered if he'd bothered to put in a good word for her – despite what Vasile said and whatever shit Beilschmidt might have gotten away with, it was said that Arthur Kirkland was a tough, inflexible and highly insensitive bastard, reason for which everyone was wary of the man. And now she was about to walk into his den. The Hungarian suppressed a deep sigh as she knocked softy on the door, promptly receiving a dry 'come in' in reply.

"Please be seated, Miss Héderváry," Arthur Kirkland said in a monotonous voice, without looking up from the papers he was currently leafing through. She slipped quietly into one of the two hard chairs placed in front of his desk and less than a minute later Roderich walked in, closing the door in his wake.

"Right," the internal affairs officer said, finally looking up and his dull gaze sweeping over the two of them indifferently. "Before we begin, would any of you like to say anything?"

Elizaveta remained silent, briefly glancing in the Austrian's direction, but he was staring straight ahead, his expression hard and cold. He only shook his head.

"Very well then," the blond went on. "We are here to draw a conclusion on the report which you have filed, Mr. Edelstein. In this report you are accusing your former partner – detective Héderváry – of negligence and unprofessional behavior, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Would you care to elaborate, Mr. Edelstein?"

Roderich began to speak, briefly describing the events of that fateful day, but the Hungarian found she could hardly focus on what he was saying. Instead, her gaze swept tiredly over the setting of Kirkland's office, the neat rows of books on the shelves located on the wall behind him, the thin twirls of steam still rising from his cup of black tea placed dangerously close to the edge of his desk.

"… basically she just stayed behind in the car instead of backing me up."

Now that was a blatant lie. How dared he?! "That's not true!" she jumped, much to her horror her voice coming out like an undignified squeak. "I rushed right after him, but he-"

"Please be quiet, Miss Héderváry. You will speak when I ask you to," the Englishman cut her off sternly.

Elizaveta's breath caught in her throat and a cold shudder ran down her spine at the harsh words – was Kirkland against her already? What if Roderich had had a talk with him before? Maybe this really was a standard procedure, but one meant to conceal the fact that her fate was already sealed.

"Look Arthur, it's simple-" Roderich began to say, but stopped abruptly when the blond looked up at him brusquely, closing the file and pressing both his palms flat on top of the cover.

"You will address me with 'Mr. Kirkland', detective," he stated neutrally. "Now, Mr. Edelstein, based on the detailed facts in your report and the statements I have requested from the rest of the staff involved, you were informed through the radio that the number of possibly armed and dangerous suspects in the building was unknown, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you confirm, Miss Héderváry?" Arthur asked and the brunette nodded, barely murmuring a strained 'yes'.

"And, Mr. Edelstein, are you aware that the standard procedure in such circumstances is to request reinforcements?"

Roderich blinked a few times, slightly irritated. "Yes, sir. Detective Héderváry asked for reinforcements, I suppose…"

"You _suppose_?" The Englishman's thick eyebrows shot up quizzically, but his gaze shifted to Elizaveta immediately after. "Miss Héderváry, you requested reinforcements, did you not?"

"Yes, sir. As soon as we arrived at the scene. But it was after… well, Rod- detective Edelstein had walked in…"

"Mr. Edelstein, are you aware that the standard procedure in such circumstances also requires that until the arrival of reinforcements one must remain within the safety of the vehicle?" The Austrian didn't answer, only cleared his throat awkwardly. "Did you step out of the vehicle before the arrival of reinforcements?"

The dark-haired detective adjusted his spectacles, with an unrestrained scowl this time. "I don't see the relevance of this, Mr. Kirkland!" he protested. "I could not waste time and have the suspects get away!"

But they had gotten away anyway after shooting him, if anything his break in had tipped them off. His former partner knew that he was too impulsive to stick to procedures most of the times, but that time it had almost been a beginner's mistake. Surely Kirkland must have realized it too, she hoped. At any rate, the Englishman appeared unfazed by his reaction.

"Answer the question, detective," he requested sternly, leaning forward over his desk. "Did you or did you not step out of the vehicle before the arrival of reinforcements?"

"Yes I did, but-"

"Mr. Edelstein, the standard procedures we are referring to right now were developed in order to ensure the safety of the police force. If an officer makes the decision – for whatever reason – not to comply with the stipulations of said procedures, no one but themselves can be held accountable for the outcome of the respective noncompliance. I believe this is common sense, detective," Arthur said dryly.

"And I believe it is common sense for a police officer to back his partner up in case of a crisis! This is about team work and about one doing their job!" Roderich snapped. "It's a tough job and it's not for _everyone_, that's for sure! The thing is detective Héderváry should have backed me up, she should have gone in with me instead of lingering behind! I almost died in there, for God's sake!"

Arthur leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtful but otherwise unreadable. "Miss Héderváry, is there anything you would like to say with regard to the facts presented by Mr. Edelstein or otherwise comment on his statements?" he asked.

The brunette shook her head. "No sir, only that I consider I did my best under the circumstances." Roderich snorted discreetly, but she refused to look at him this time.

The Englishman sighed, staring down at his papers again. "Mr. Edelstein, in the submitted documentation you have recommended the suspension and sanction of detective Héderváry on the grounds of your report. However, are you aware that you have neither the position nor the authority to recommend the suspension or sanction of someone of the same rank as you?"

"No, but _you_ can!" the dark-haired detective retorted sharply."And surely you must understand that some attitudes cannot be tolerated!"

The internal affairs officer's gaze narrowed, signaling that he had not appreciated being yelled at. But it only lasted for a second before his neutral, even bored demeanor returned and the blond appeared once again thoughtful, his thick eyebrows rising slightly as he pondered on what to say next.

"Detective, is it true that you and Miss Héderváry were romantically involved until recently?" he asked, out of the blue. "And also, Mr. Edelstein, were you aware that Chief Inspector Adnan had recommended both you and detective Héderváry for promotion, but after the… unfortunate incident in which you were injured he withdrew the recommendation as far as you were concerned?"

Elizaveta froze in her seat (she for one had been completely clueless about the whole promotion thing) and the Austrian sported a dumbfounded scowl in turn, but Arthur remained impassible, reaching for his teacup and taking a graceful sip before pursing his mouth in a funny way, expectant.

Roderich cleared his throat. "I-I don't know what you mean by 'romantically involved', sir… (the Hungarian couldn't help rolling her eyes at this absurd excuse, noticing too late that the blond's eyes had shifted to her). There was a thing, I suppose you could say we were close for a short while. And yes, I had heard about the Chief Inspector's intentions. But I don't understand why these questions! Could you explain the relevance of this?"

"Certainly. You see, detective, throughout my internal affairs work I have seen a lot of instances where police staff has filed reports against their coworkers, that is to say there's nothing unusual about it. Teams were changed, people were transferred to other stations sometimes, but all conflicts so far were ultimately solved amiably one way or another. You, however, would go to great lengths – even filing an unfounded report – to see this through, which naturally makes me wonder if this isn't by any chance your little personal vendetta."

"Why would you-"

"Could it be, Mr. Edelstein, that because you were in a relationship with Miss Héderváry your expectations of her were much higher that they would have been in the case of a different partner, one you hadn't been involved with? And could it be that you were vexed by the thought of your girlfriend getting a higher status and better pay than you, enough to seek to thwart her professional advancement with these accusations?"

The brunette stole a furtive glance towards her former partner – he was scowling openly now, red in the face and breathing heavily through his nose despite his stiff posture. To her surprise, Kirkland had read him well, maybe he'd just been too obvious. At any rate, things made sense now, to some extent – Roderich was an ambitious man and if what the internal affairs officer was saying about Sadiq's decisions was true, it must have only dealt him an additional blow.

"To be completely honest, I find your reasoning to be quite biased, Mr. Kirkland," the Austrian said at last. "I see you are more inclined to interpret rumors than facts… well I suppose I should have expected your lack of understanding, since you're doing this convenient office work and you have no idea what's out there!"

Arthur snorted. "Detective, I'll have you know that I've actually done six years of fieldwork before getting this 'convenient office job', but it doesn't matter because at the end of the day you're not accusing me of anything, but your former partner, whose life you equally jeopardized by breaching elementary regulations. That being said, I believe the conclusion on this case is obvious – I reject it," he said definitively. "Also, I see you have not completed any psychological evaluation after the incident, therefore I shall recommend that you have one."

"Well, if this is your decision…"

"It is, Mr. Edelstein. That will be all."

Elizaveta barely contained a sigh of relief as her former partner stood up without another word, blank faced, and was about to do the same.

"Not you, Miss Héderváry," the Englishman said, making her halt in mid-movement. The brunette slipped limply back into her seat, a cold shudder running down her spine again. Was she in trouble after all? Hadn't Roderich's report been rejected? Maybe she was to receive some sort of sanction after all?

"This is all your fault, you know," the blond said, as soon as the door closed behind the bespectacled Austrian. "You pampered him too much and as a result he became completely irresponsible!"

Oh. Great. "But-"

"Every single time he messed up you were there to fix it, until one day when it was humanly impossible for you to do it, but do you think he sees that? No, he feels betrayed. By you, by Chief Inspector Adnan, and now by me."

The internal affairs officer was right, she knew that. Poor Roddy. And the mention of the psychological evaluation must have offended him even more. And there it was again, that feeling of being torn between anger and pity. What if he had said all those cruel things just because he was shaken? But then again, did it really matter or the end result was the more important?

Elizaveta drew a breath, fidgeting a bit. "So… what will happen now?"

The Englishman shrugged. "Well, nothing, unless he finds a way to bypass my decision and take his report to some higher-up. Hopefully I will be able to prevent that, but I will have to ask you to stop protecting him."He leaned over the desk to look the brunette in the eye. "I was informed about what happened earlier and this kind of behavior cannot be tolerated. I know you may still have feelings for this man, but I can't let things go haywire around here."

_**To be continued **_


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER 8**

A/N – Hello everyone! As usual, thank you all for your kind reviews, I must confess that I had never expected this story to be so successful and appreciated, it all started from a song really (Republic-of-Yolossia knows what I'm talking about LOL). For those of you who might wonder, the song is _Krimirad_ by Jelena Karleusa and I stumbled on it on youtube. It's actually a Serbian song, not Bulgarian as I initially thought, but it's badass and while listening to it one day at work I got this (absolutely grand) idea. Yeah. Just realized I haven't updated this in over a month…

* * *

Elizaveta closed the door of her office slowly and allowed herself a loud sigh of relief as she slumped her shoulders. "Phew! What do you know, it went unexpectedly well with Kirkland," she said. "He rejected Roderich's claim."

The brunette shook her head, deciding to keep to herself the full extent of the report's absurdity. She had not known exactly what it contained, but it would have been hard not to be rejected by any rational internal officer. Maybe Arthur's hint – however cruel it may have sounded at the time – made sense. Maybe Roddy had indeed not made a full emotional recovery after the accident and this was plain proof of it.

Her new partner spun around in his chair, a small smile lingering on his lips as he took in her expression. "Oh yeah, the little scone is pretty happy, especially after he's wiped the floor with at least one person," he said."And by the ashen look of detective _Edelschmuck _as he crossed the hall and dramatically slammed the door of his own office, I assumed it was him on the receiving end of the lucky treatment this time."

"Yeah? That's not what you said before," the detective grumbled, rummaging through her papers in search of a certain file. "I thought you said he's not a bad guy and that I had nothing to worry about. Anyway, I'm just glad it's over, at least for now," she added dismissively, gathering the papers in her arms. "Now I have more important things to-"

"I think you should sit down for a bit."

The Hungarian's gaze shot up in surprise at the soft but firm interruption and she eyed Alin with a scowl. "What? No! We must go and talk to Lovino Vargas, right now!"

"You should chill and loosen up a bit before that," the rifleman advised," You're still tense. And Vargas will probably be an annoying fuck, besides, he's been here before so don't expect him to be all shy about it. And if you lose your temper with him you won't get anything, he won't be afraid of you."

"He won't be _afraid_ of me or he won't be afraid of _me_?"

Elizaveta rolled her eyes, but allowed herself to plop down in her own chair nevertheless, because she knew he was right. Yes and she was hardly in the mood for more crap in a single day, the hearing had left a bitter taste in her mouth, despite the positive result. Because really, it was a no-win situation.

"Roderich hates me," the detective said conclusively, picking up her coffee mug and – upon seeing it was empty – dropping it back onto the desk with a grimace.

"Oh, I don't know… maybe he really is shaken, but my gut feeling is that it's more of an alpha thing," the Romanian observed. "See, it's always been 'public knowledge' that you were better than him, and now this incident was the last drop. Edelstein wanted to be the big bad wolf in your relationship and so he could not accept to be bested by his submissive partner, from any point of view. Thus, unless you decide to turn yourself into a brainless Barbie, things will most likely not change for the better."

The detective pondered briefly and quickly realized that she wasn't willing to delve into those concepts at all.

She snorted. "Yeah? Whatever the hell happened to the 'love is selfless' concept?"

Alin shrugged. "Doesn't universally apply, I guess."

* * *

Elizaveta peeked through the small window into the interrogation room, where Lovino Vargas was waiting, more or less patiently. She took her time observing the man – some resemblance to his younger brother was obvious, his hair was darker but the same stray curl stuck out awkwardly on one side of his head and he had the same almost childish features, contrasting oddly with the thick mustache with upturned corners.

In the last moment Alin had decided it was more prudent if Lovino Vargas didn't lay eyes on him after all, so he'd be watching the interrogation from behind the screen instead. She hated the thought of being alone with this man, not because she was afraid but because of the sudden repulsion she felt towards him. And hell, it would probably not go smoothly.

"Is it alright if I smoke?" was the first thing the Italian said, throwing Elizaveta a bored glance.

"No, Mr. Vargas, I'm afraid you cannot smoke in here," the detective replied with a smile, motioning with her head towards the large 'No smoking' sign on the wall. She took her time setting down the file on the table between them and pulling out her chair. "Now, Mr. Vargas, I have some questions outside the course of the investigation you've been brought in for. Would you be so kind as to answer them?"

As she would soon find out, being nice didn't pay up. Not with this man.

"Why would I 'be so kind'? Maybe I should talk to my lawyer before answering any of your questions," he said dryly.

Maybe I should call Beilschmidt and ask him to bang your head against the table a few times, perhaps that would make you more cooperative, the Hungarian couldn't help thinking while the friendly smile persisted on her lips. Her gaze slipped to the side, towards the fake mirror behind which Alin and probably Sadiq too were watching and she took a deep, calming breath. There was no use losing her cool over this arrogant piece of scum.

"Well, you're not being accused of anything."

Lovino tilted his head to the side and nodded slowly in reply, with an air like he was doing her a huge favor. Asshole.

"Mr. Vargas, are you aware of the incident in which your grandfather, Rome Vargas was killed and your brother Feliciano Vargas was injured?"

"Yes."

"You see, Mr. Vargas, I was wondering – right after the incident your brother declared to the police that his grandfather had been his only living family – why is that?"

The Italian simply shrugged, uncaring. "It's a very simple reason, actually. When I was eighteen me and _Nonno_ – I mean grandfather – had a fight about business. I decided to part ways with him for good and my brother had a choice to make." Lovino paused and shrugged his shoulders again, with an increasingly bored air. "He chose to stay with _Nonno_, see, it was his choice. It's not my fault that he's on his own now."

It was his choice? _Choice?!_ But he is just a child! Elizaveta wanted to scream at this man and shake him out of his indifference, but she knew it would have probably been a waste of time. Some people's idea of family was clearly peculiar. She did her best to push away the image of a battered and bruised Feliciano from her mind and focus on the task at hand.

"Mr. Vargas, are you acquainted with a certain Mr. Kiril Georgiev? Or a Mr. Tsvetan Borisov?" the brunette asked instead. She blinked innocently at the almost inconspicuous scowl creeping onto the Italian's face at the question. Yep, he definitely knew what she was talking about.

"Nope, I don't know any fucking Russians," he replied instead, bluntly, crossing his arms.

"They're not Russian, they're Bulgarians and they were the ones behind the attack at your grandfather's restaurant. Actually, they had absolutely no intention to hide this fact. Were you aware that he was paying or rather, that he'd been required to pay protection tax?"

Lovino snorted, as if she'd just asked the dumbest question. "It is a common practice in this business, is it not? No, I didn't know for a fact that he was paying or to whom for that matter, but I can easily imagine he must have. I have known nothing of his business ever since I decided to have nothing to do with him anymore. And I wish you didn't bug me with this whole… drama I know nothing about."

The brunette blinked, finding it hard to believe what she was hearing. Her fingers gripped the edges of the file in front of her as she scowled, shaking her head. "Mr. Vargas, in the average 'drama' – as you called it – people yell at each other and occasionally someone puts their foot through the TV, but in _this_ drama people get killed, so I would appreciate if you were more cooperative."

But the look on the Italian's face made it pretty clear that he didn't give a flying fuck about it. Or maybe it was just a front? Irrelevant in the end, he wasn't going to say anything.

"Look, I don't know anything about any of grandfather's shit, I told you, detective. Who knows what sort of stuff he must have been involved in? In any case, if you don't have anything else with me, I'd like to know when I can get the fuck out of here."

* * *

The unused file was slammed forcefully onto the dark desk as Elizaveta plopped into her chair, burying her face in her hands. Fuck. Maybe she had asked the wrong questions? What would have made the man tick and actually give some answers? How the fuck was she supposed to get anywhere anytime soon?

"He has a fake mustache."

"What?" The brunette looked up between her fingers, tiredly, to see Alin quite amused at his own statement."What the hell?"

"I know, right? But it was fake, I am sure," the rifleman laughed. "Which makes me wonder who the fuck wears a fake mustache… ah yes, a man who tries to appear more intimidating maybe?"

The Hungarian rolled her eyes. "Then couldn't he just _grow_ a fucking mustache?"

"He could, but perhaps it wouldn't be as thick and vigorous as this one."

"Right…" the detective agreed, resuming her slumped stance and pressing the heels of her palms onto her aching forehead. "Going past his fake mustache, what else do you think about him? Any gut feelings?"

The strawberry blond examined his nails thoughtfully and sighed. "I think he's the kind of guy who likes to play tough and flex his muscles, but when someone bares their fangs at him he goes soft like a wet scarf. So… as soon as the time is right, we will do just that."

Great. Wet scarf.

* * *

Loud music was blaring through the sound system and the lasers swiped the dancing crowd, the air heavy with cigarette smoke. Alin was tired, he would have rather gone home and slept, but the job was the job. Watching Tsvetan refill his glass with rakia, he pondered on what should have been his next step. Things were stagnating for now, the Bulgarian would not say anything new or allow him any opportunity to gain more information.

"You're very quiet tonight, baby. Anything on your mind?" Green eyes focused on him curiously and the strawberry blond looked up, meeting Tsvetan's light smile. It was meant to appear benevolent, when in fact it was nothing but hungry and predatory. And slightly superior. Nope, Borisov wasn't half as good as he liked to believe he was.

"Nothing… just had a long day," he replied, sighing into his glass as he took a long sip. Red eyes glanced curiously at the synthetically happy faces of several kids jumping up and down on the dance floor, out of rhythm and caught in their own private little madness and wondered if Georgiev was by any chance at the other end of the supply chain of such joy.

"Look, I know this place isn't much," the Bulgarian admitted, shrugging. "In fact it's a total shithole, so if you want to go somewhere else we're good, okay? Just tell me."

Alin looked up at him and shook his head, then returned his attention to the jumping kids. "What's with them?" he asked casually, motioning with his head and adjusting better in his seat. "The fuck does it take to be so upbeat, huh?"

A hand reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, exposing the pierced lobe, as his dark-haired 'friend' shifted closer and leaned in, brushing his lips against the tempting piece of flesh. The hand then reached the opposite shoulder and went down his arm, Tsvetan pulling him closer until his side was pressed into the other's torso.

"No way my little pumpkin… Your innocence is truly endearing," he chuckled, burying his nose into the crook of Alin's neck. "But then again, you wouldn't do that, would you? Good boys don't. So I won't tell you."

It was good that Tsvetan couldn't see his lover's face and consequently missed the completely out of character look of blasé irritation and the roll of eyes which followed his comment. And what the hell was with the 'little pumpkin', again?! "No, seriously, what is it, crack?" he asked regardless.

"_Crack?!_" The Bulgarian threw him a disbelieving and very amused glance and tilted his chin up, crushing their mouths together for a quick, breathless kiss. "You know what, don't bother your pretty little head with it, okay?"

If only you knew what I'm actually bothering my 'pretty little head' with… you fucking idiot! But the rifleman's annoyed musings were interrupted when he noticed a familiar face in the animated crowd, heading straight for their table. He inwardly congratulated himself for his earlier decision of remaining out of the sight of Mr. Lovino Vargas as the man himself was walking towards them in that very moment. However, trouble was coming anyway, because the Italian's brisk step spoke of determination and his expression was beyond pissed. So much so that his fake mustache was somewhat askew. Alin bit his lip and looked away, torn between amusement and genuine perplexity. What. The. Fuck?! Vargas wasn't right in the head, no way could he have been.

"Hey, baby, I have a bit of-" But whatever Borisov was planning to say was brutally interrupted a second later.

"You fuck! You useless, stupid fucking cunt!" Lovino yelled, his fists balled at his sides, as Tsvetan stood up to face him. "You got the stupid fucking police on my back with your stupid tricks to show you've got balls! Well you can suck mine, you asshole!"

Tsvetan scowled, crossing his arms. "What the hell is your problem exactly, Mr. Vargas?"

"YOU ARE MY FUCKING PROBLEM, _EXACTLY_! I was arrested today and some fucking bitch started asking me questions!"

"Well I've heard you got arrested today in your own restaurant after you tried to break someone's neck-"

"Asshole, the bitch was asking questions about _you_ and about my useless brother and fucking _Nonno_! You fuck, don't I pay you enough protection tax?! Don't I always pay you on time for your fucking stuff?! And now you fucked me like this because you wanted publicity! Well fuck you, Borisov!"

Several screams erupted around them when the Italian suddenly pulled out a gun and pointed it in Tsvetan's face.

"I want you and the rest of the fucks working with you to fuck off and crawl back to that Balkan shithole you came from, do you hear me?! Or I will fucking kill all of you! I'm not going back to jail because of some low-life shits like you!"

Alin didn't know and couldn't possibly imagine what the fuck was Lovino Vargas thinking waltzing into Georgiev's den alone and waving his gun under Borisov's nose like that, but it wasn't good. Hand pressed tightly over his mouth and looking far more scared than he was, the strawberry blond calculated the odds of the gun actually being fired and possible crisis plans. Tense like a bow and rapidly reaching the conclusion that Vargas was probably crazy enough (the sweat on his forehead and his state of dishevelment also potentially indicating that he was also drunk) to shoot, he prepared to delve into the narrow space between the plush seats and the low table.

But then one of the bouncers – who had crept unnoticed behind the Italian – hit the man in the back of his head with a truncheon of sorts and Lovino collapsed over the polished, glass laden table face first, both his gun and his fake mustache discarded on impact. Alin jumped to his feet, his eyes wide as the table gave way and all of its contents smashed on the ground. Naturally inclined to see the funny side of everything (or maybe as a defense mechanism, even when things weren't particularly funny, like now), the Romanian barely and desperately muffled a hysterical laughter when the bouncer picked up the piece of faux hair and examined it in complete awe.

With a deep breath, Alin shook out of that state and assessed the situation, scrubbing a hand over his heated face. Things were still very bad, because even with Lovino and his gun out of the scene there was no knowing how Borisov was going to react to him being witness to this particular episode. All he could do was stand there, looking scared out of his mind, shocked even, appearing to not know what to make of what he'd just seen.

Maybe he should have run, while the mess was being cleaned up by the staff and the bouncers were trying to get the crowd to settle down and explain that there was no danger and while Tsvetan was giving instructions to his men to drag the unconscious Lovino out and who knew where. He didn't care, didn't give a fuck about the Italian, it was his problem if he was _that_ retarded. Yes, run, get the fuck out of there.

He pushed his way through still wary people clutching their drinks to the back exit and slipped through a dark, narrow corridor, finding his way blindly, wanting nothing but to be outside, in fresh air. A door was found at last and he slammed his shoulder against it hurriedly, impatiently, nearly tripping onto the threshold as it opened. Alin glanced around bewildered, panting and with an increasing scowl, because instead of the back alley he was expecting to find himself in, this had turned out to be a sort of former summer garden, now looking abandoned and unkempt, surrounded by rusty metal grids covered in dried ivy strains, and filled with metal tables and chairs skeletons, lying in random heaps onto the bare, filthy concrete. Fuck. This wasn't the way out, he must have gotten it wrong in the dark.

After convincing himself that there really was no way out of it, nor any chance to safely climb the fence, the strawberry blond wheeled around, sighing, only to discover Tsvetan standing into the dark, gaping mouth of the door. Double fuck. Struggling to control his ragged breathing, he told himself that it was okay to be scared, after all it was the normal and expected reaction.

"Hey… are you alright, baby? Where'd you run off like this?" the Bulgarian asked, walking up to him with large strides, while the other's wide eyes took in every detail of him – his hands , his stance, his face – frantically searching for any sign of impending danger.

Assessing the gravity of the situation and the preparation of a potential fight response rendered the rifleman unable to give an answer, but that could have easily been attributed to sheer shock. Looking scared was fine, he mentally repeated.

"Hey… just say something, please," Borisov insisted, but the other only took a step back, away from him.

"Just… what the fuck was that, huh?" Alin shook his head, blinking and sniffing a bit, fingers fisting into his own hair, helplessly. "WHAT THE FUCK, TSVETAN?!" He squeezed his eyes shut and hugged himself. "Who the fuck was that man?! And the stuff he said… he…"

The green-eyed young man grabbed his shoulders, holding him steady and prompting him to open his eyes. "Listen, it's nothing, okay? You've got nothing to worry about, baby, nothing to be scared of, I promise!"

This time the Romanian was truly, genuinely perplexed at what he was hearing and did not hesitate to push Tsvetan away as hard as he could. "_Nothing_?! How can you fucking say that it's nothing?! I have nothing to be scared of?! That man put a gun in your face, for fuck's sake! What if he had fired before the bouncers got to him, huh?! What if he'd shot you?! What if he'd shot _me_?! Then what?" He paused to draw a short, shaky breath, then went on. "Is that why you really carry a gun, huh? I heard very clearly what he said, too! You're not a cook and you're not a fucking _guard_ either, are you?!"

Borisov appeared only mildly troubled by the questions and shrugged. "Look, it's not like I could have told you the whole story right off the bat, is it? But like I said, you've got nothing to worry about, it's just business."

Right. Just business. Alin nodded slowly – maybe he'd underestimated the Bulgarian's degree of fucked-up after all. "Look, I don't know what this is, but… I'm scared, okay? Seriously, how the fuck am I supposed to feel safe and… trust you and… just business? How do I know you didn't use that gun to shoot people? N-no, you're a dangerous man, Tsvetan and I'm sorry… but I can't do this. I-I want out…"

"You want out?" the brunet asked, still calm but with the vaguest hint of menace in his quiet tone. "Just like that, you want out?"

Alin blinked, sensing the danger as the other stepped closer, with narrowed eyes, his true face showing again. "I can't handle this shit, okay? And you can't-"

"You _want out_?!" Borisov hissed." Who the fuck do you think I am, to think you can fucking treat me like this?! To walk out on me like this?! Do I look like your fucking toy?!"

"You know what, fuck you!" the rifleman retorted, trying to push past the other and reach the door. But he had miscalculated his defense this time – the Bulgarian did not reach for his neck as he'd thought and prepared for, but instead the man's fist flew and collided with his jaw with lightning speed and such force that his balance was instantly lost and he fell backwards. His body collapsed helplessly onto a pile of iron, the bars digging mercilessly into his flesh.

And then a sharp pain exploded in the back of his skull and everything went black.

_**To be continued **_


End file.
